


Some Kind of Magical

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Fighting, Fire, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 22:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15650196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: Senior year can kind of suck. A lot. Toss in some deadly oversized creatures and a final project that literally determines the rest of your life, and some problems are bound to get tangled up in there somewhere. Just keep your head down, finish your project, and everything should be just fine. Right?





	1. Chapter 1

“Yeah, no, I’m definitely switching,” Logan says, tracing a finger under the bolded guidelines on the syllabus. The only marring on the pale blue paper is the corner, folded just enough to be a gripping point in the event he might need it quickly. Even the pad of his finger hardly leaves a trace of oil or sweat. “Says here the only requirement is a clear and concise direction for my project, and if Research is willing to accept my TryMyts, I should be all set. Shouldn’t be too difficult, and trust me, I’ve seen a few successful TryMyts in the past. I’ve nothing to worry about.” Logan smooths out the corner on the cafeteria table, careful to avoid the remnants of food and drink littering the surface. “Patton, any particular way you intend to sneak desertion past your dad?”

Patton slouches down in his seat, nearly resting on his back as his head tips to groan at the ceiling. “He threatened to take my bedroom door off while I’m at school today, what with me daring to leave five minutes earlier than usual, so I’m open to suggestions.”

“Have you considered staying with Resolute and pretending to be happy about it?” Roman prods a plastic fork at his lunch, poking his tongue at a canker sore aggravating the corner of his lips.

“Have you considered lying to Pib about what you want to go into?”

“Fair point.” Roman scrapes up some heavily burned vegetables, slathered in a generous heaping of grease and pepper, and watches them drip between the prongs of his fork to splatter on the styrofoam tray. Logan grimaces, blotting up the new stain from his oversized black glasses. “Maybe put off telling your dad until you get into Rehabilitate, then. Not much he can do once you’re officially in a different Trytsu.” Scooping a carrot slice into his mouth, Roman stabs his fork in the air to emphasize his point as he talks around the food. “Plus, I mean, it’s not like he’ll be able to stop you if he doesn’t know it’s happening to begin with, right?”

“Yeah, that’s kind of what I was thinking.” Patton leverages himself up to a more proper posture on his wobbling stool, resting his chin on a fist. His elbow nearly shoots out from under him when more grease sprays at it from Roman’s dropped fork. “Sorry for bringing Pib into this, I know that’s not really my business. Force of habit, deflection against the lecture I’ll get later and everything.”

“Of course, your father’s famed ‘Resolve via Resolute’ speeches. A crowd pleaser, to be sure.” Logan shoots Roman a wry grin as Patton elbows him in playful annoyance. “I do believe myself to be familiar with the concept.”

“Mocking his grammar is your favorite part and you know it.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that.”

“Deny it,” Virgil cuts in, slamming an overflowing tray down beside Roman.

“You don’t even know what you’re telling him to deny,” Patton accuses, reaching over to snatch something from Virgil’s tray. Virgil swats the hand away as he drops into the empty seat, warily stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. No further attempts on Virgil’s lunch are made.

“Irrelevant.”

“Your face is irrelevant,” Roman retorts. The mere threat of Virgil’s whiplash glare is enough to keep his paws off the new food.

“Nice comeback, where’d you find it? A tide pool for newborn selkies? Because trust me, that’s about how deep it cuts.” Ignoring the look of high offense on Roman’s face, Virgil sets about shoveling his towering stack of food down his throat.

“So what’s with the delay?” Logan doesn’t look up from the syllabus, still tapping his fingers lightly over certain lines. Doodles scribbled in pen crawl over his skin, shining an unnatural dark blue in the fluorescent lighting of the cafeteria.

A spray of crumbs and spit accompanies Virgil’s response, as well as a thumb jabbing behind him. “Than.”

“Is that so?” Patton swivels around on his stool, bracing a hand against the table. “I’ll go tell him a thing or two about delaying one of my friends, and if he’s got any sense about keeping that pretty blond hair on his head, he’ll listen close.”

“Not going to help your probation situation,” Logan sing songs under his breath. He anchors Patton down with the barest trace of an ink-covered finger on his hand. Patton slumps back down in defeat, the righteous fires of rage crackling down to burning embers in his eyes. “Virgil? Care to spare more than four letters in regards to your delay?”

“Adoptive parents, undeclared TryMyts, a bottomless pit for a stomach, a tattered friendship that he seems hell bent on repairing, the usual. Roman, if you so much as touch my tray, my next snack is going to be your hand.”

“Says the vegetarian,” mutters Roman. Regardless, he draws his hand back to his chest and shields it with the other. “So you’re really sticking with undeclared?”

Before letting Virgil get a word in edgewise, the other three chime in with their own opinions. “Do you know how rare it is to have a successful TryMyts without declaring your intended Trytsu beforehand?”

“What did your moms say about it?”

“If Pib goes undeclared, I’m calling it on you.”

“Do you have any ideas for an all-purpose project?”

“Do you need any help with it?”

“Speaking of help, can you give me some with my homework?” The clamor of conversation halts as Virgil casts a quirked eyebrow at Roman.

“Topic jump much?” Virgil slides his somehow already empty tray to the side, letting Roman’s notebook fill in the gap. In the midst of Roman pointing out his issue, Virgil tugs more snacks from his bags and crams them into his mouth.

“So are your parents really okay with you switching?” Patton asks, angling his knees toward Logan. He lowers his voice so as not to interrupt the studying pair across from them. “I know they’ve always been really proud of their Rehabilitate lineage.”

“I discussed the matter with Ren last night,” Logan says, shuffling through his stack of papers, “and we’re going to talk it over with my mother once she finds a break in her work. Ren was all for it, but they’re always like that, so it’s not like I’m overly concerned.” The slight furrow in Logan’s brows betrays that he probably is, in fact, overly concerned, but Patton elects not to comment on this.

The warning bell to end lunch period chimes, sending freshmen scattering and seniors groaning. As a whole, the air of the room turns from relaxed to agitated. “Wish my dad could act the same way.” Patton rescues a fallen blue pen from the floor, handing it off to Logan before tossing his own garbage in the rolling bin.

“Punch him in the jugular,” Virgil suggests, stowing some wrappers in his pocket instead of trying to catch up with the freshman dutifully pushing away the garbage bin. “It’ll prove you mean business, and isn’t that what he wants?”

“What he wants is to keep me from shipping out like my mom did, but how’s that working out for him?” Patton’s hazel eyes dart to the loudspeaker that sounded the bell, an analog clock ticking away seconds to its left. “Speaking of working something out, I’d better get going. I’m supposed to be making up an assignment with Myjhyrr Pentheon between periods. Later.” The remaining trio forces back a collective laugh as Patton shoulder-checks Than on his way out, sending a considerable amount of papers flying. Even more amusing is how the three inches of differences means that Than’s chin knocks into Patton’s shorter shoulder as the former goes down.

“Where might you two be headed?” asks Logan. He swings his bag across his back with surprising ease, given its numerous and overflowing contents. Roman tucks another pen in one of the side pockets—not Logan’s, to be sure, but the guy certainly has a penchant for collecting lost writing utensils that don’t belong to him.

“Myjhyrr Senthyirr wants to meet me in his room for his off hour, undeclared Trytsu and all. Have fun being studious nerds.” Virgil gives a two-fingered salute to Logan and tugs on a strand of Roman’s short, brown hair as they approach Than. He takes an offered stick of gum from Roman, busying himself with reading the label to ignore Than.

“Still showing your face, I see. You know, I hear it’s remarkably difficult to live past twenty when you can’t even sort yourself out at seventeen,” Than jeers, still bent over to scrape together his fallen papers. He tightens the knot of the plaid jacket tied around his waist and dusts off his knees. “Guess that’s why your parents didn’t want you though, right?”

Virgil slinks past in silence, still a good head taller than Than despite a chronic slouch. With a choice finger in the air behind him, he strolls through the yawning double doors into a refreshingly cool hall, filled with the last few stragglers of the final lunch period.

Unnecessarily deep into the far end of the school stands a nondescript door, completely unremarkable. Aside from its inconvenient location, of course. Virgil knocks, three quick raps, before tugging on the handle without waiting for a response. The knock is more a show of courtesy than a request for permission, anyway.

“Myjhyrr Senthyirr? You, uh, you wanted to see me?” Virgil flinches as the door slams shut behind him—just the wind, he tells himself. Right, because an empty hallway is just so famous for its spontaneous tornadoes. The room ahead seems to recoil from light, shrouding itself in shadow as an even darker silhouette materializes. It takes impossibly long strides, arriving before Virgil with a shapeless blob hovering between them. A hand, Virgil informs himself, probably more desperate to believe it than he’d be willing to let one. Just shake it. Shake his hand. He doesn’t. The floating mass retracts.

“Yes, well, let’s just have a seat, shall we? Make yourself at home, I’ve excused you for the whole class period.” The silhouette floats away, sinking down into what’s apparently a chair, its posture indicating for Virgil to follow suit. Heb shuffles along, keeping his arms outstretched into the darkness. The gum smacks loudly in his mouth. Its resounding echo shrieks in Virgil’s ears.

“Actually, I’ve got this exam coming up, and I really should be—”

“Nonsense. You’ll be fine. I’ve seen your scores. Remarkable, truly. Not to mention, the year just started. There are no exams yet.” The vague outline of a person shifts, allowing its eyes to shine in the slim beam of the pale sun peeking into the room, its brilliance marred by clouds. “Try harder to think of an excuse the next time you deign to lie to my face, hm?” The eyes, just barely bright enough to be called human, stare Virgil down in the vast emptiness of the room, big and brown and seeming to know something he doesn’t. Virgil twitches.

“Let’s see here, adopted into a blended home of Research and Resolute? Interesting, we don’t often see cross-Trytsu pairings, especially successful ones. More so in regards to those particular Trytsun, what with Resolute’s prevailing penchant for involvement in wars.” Virgil bites back a snide remark of how he’d certainly never heard that opinion before, not in all his seventeen years of existing. “Why don’t you just run me through the reasons for your uncertainty? If I know what’s got you running around that wheel in your head, I can better know how to assist your year.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, sure. So Resolute, I’m just not much of a fighter? And I know that’s not what Resolute is about, it’s about defending others and keeping the peace through physical means, but like, that’s just not me. I want to protect people, yeah, but it’s not like I want to have to get violent against other creatures to do that, you know? And yeah, I know, that’s not what it’s about, and I, um, I love my mother and how, like, caring she is, despite everyone touting her as being a member of ‘Revenge’ or whatever, but still.

“And then there’s Rehabilitate, which, I don’t know, maybe? I like caring for creatures and ensuring their survival and stuff, and working on projects when we’re supposed to come up with innovative solutions to environmental problems regarding trystopian creatures, but the selflessness aspect of it all? It just feels wrong, like I put more value in the lives of those I’m supposed to help than I put in my own, which definitely isn’t the point, although I guess I sort of do that already. Plus, it’s not like I grew up with a Rehabilitate influence, either.

“If I can’t decide in the end, then I’ll probably just end up in Research, mostly because it’s the easiest, and my mom would probably be thrilled. I mean, I haven’t talked with her about it, but I don’t think she’d be disappointed. Logan and I—Logan Thylktor, I mean—help Roman Thyrrak with his homework a lot, so that’s alright, and I like learning stuff, but the whole, like, ‘hands-off’ approach when it comes to dealing with the creatures? That’s just not me, not my style. And my mom swears she’d support me even if I don’t go into her Trytsu, but I just don’t want to disappoint her, or my mother, or anyone. Sorry, it’s just that I’m completely lost, and I don’t know what to do anymore.” Virgil busies himself blowing a bubble to keep from spilling any more thoughts than necessary—his usual rule of ten word sentences or less evidently does not apply here.

More light crowds into the room through the yawning gap by the window, having grown ever wider through Virgil’s rambling. It washes over Myjhyrr Senthyirr, making those brown eyes twinkle and that violet hair glow. Virgil chooses the latter to focus on, to wonder at the unnatural coloring, to ponder over why a teacher would intentionally look unprofessional like that. Certainly an easier task than to meet that piercing gaze, unrelenting and undeniable.

“It seems to me,” the teacher begins, steepling his fingers together, “that you just need somewhere to start. As the general advisor of the TryMyts in this region, as well as this school’s specialty counselor for undeclared students, I personally feel that you, Virgil Thriyv, need to stop thinking so much.”

“But I—”

“Nope, not done talking. You just need to decide what you’re passionate about. Anything. It doesn’t even have to connect to a specific Trytsu. If you get your giggles from watching insects crawl over rotten food, then I might suggest finding a new hobby, but more power to you. It just has to be something you enjoy, that you can actively pursue, and over the course of the year, I’m sure it will eventually turn itself into whatever Trytsu you decide you need it to be. Does that sound goo?” Forcing back a tidal wave of reasons as to why this could go wrong, Virgil nods. His gum pops. “Excellent. Now, there’s just about twenty minutes left until the assembly, so why don’t you just stay in here and get to work? I’ll let you know when it’s time to head down.”

Virgil nods again, retrieves some bound papers and a purple pen from his bag, and gets to work. Not preparing for his project, of course not, but doodling aimlessly while keeping a careful eye on Myjhyrr Senthyirr. At least, as much as he can in the impossibly dark room. The teacher bustles about the room, repositioning bottles that weren’t in disarray to begin with, changing the order of books on the shelf without rhyme or reason, moving chairs between desks that already have enough seats. At some point, Virgil allows the drawing to consume most of his attention, only stopping when the sound of shattering glass jerks his head up. Myjhyrr Senthyirr grins sheepishly, stepping around the mess of dropped bottles he’d so carefully organized mere minutes earlier. Assured of a lack of imminent danger, Virgil turns back to his drawing. It’s certainly nothing to write home about, and it’s nowhere near the caliber of Logan’s portfolio, but it could be worse. He stuffs it in his bag as Myjhyrr Senthyirr motions to the door, ignoring the still-rattling shards of glass.

“Shall we?” Following him out, Virgil casts a final glance into the dark room, baffled by how he could have managed to see the paper at all, let alone well enough to put a cohesive drawing on the thing. Maybe his eyes adjusted to the relief from the terribly blinding hallway lights. Sure, he’ll go with that. Of more importance than eyes that can see in the dark is the massive swarm of people barreling for the auditorium—all seniors and teachers, by the looks of it. Virgil draws his shoulders in, one hand gripping the opposite arm protectively as a pair of yelling girls jostle against his side.

All too quickly, not soon enough, somewhere in the blurry fog that lies between the two, the grand wooden doors to the auditorium loom before him. Myjhyrr Senthyirr pats Virgil’s back reassuringly before breaking off for a separate teacher’s entrance, but it’s not the touch that makes Virgil flinch. It’s the murmured, “I couldn’t see an inch past my eyes in that room,” and the immediate disappearance without further clarification. Before he can even begin to search for the missing teacher, Virgil feels a warm hand clap on his shoulder, followed by a bare arm slinging around his neck.

“Logan’s already in there,” Roman says, squeezing the hand tighter on Virgil’s shoulder. “Said to look near the back, toward the end of the row.” Virgil finishes the side-hug with Patton and peels off Roman’s fingers, stepping through the gaping doorway. Some kid lingers behind to hold it open for the crowds with their foot, causing Virgil to wonder at their patience to wait for so long.

“Look, there he is!” Patton exclaims, pointing to the only straight back in a sea full of slouched adolescents. He drags Virgil and Roman by the hand to greet the person that reveals himself to be Logan, his books spread over the three seats nearest him. Logan shuffles them into his bag as Patton climbs over his lap to sit to his left, leaving Virgil and Roman to sit on his right. On Roman’s other side is only the aisle, a stampede of students from which e shields Virgil.

“I assumed you’d want to be in the back, so as to safely observe everyone else from a distance. Is this location agreeable?” Logan turns his head to face Virgil, snapping shut the book in his hands. At a grateful nod, Logan turns back to his written words, leaving Virgil to scope out the room, rather than the impossibly large mass of writhing bodies. Granted, the meticulously carved walls, with their reliefs and murals of glory in battle and study and protection, all look otherworldly, carefully crafted and displayed as they are. A wonder to behold, right along with the columns scattered by the many doors, scored with thin lines to mark every class of students to succeed in their TryMyts, to successfully enter a Trytsu, to make it where they want to be. A testament to the school’s pride in its students, to say the least, but more than that, more than the decorated walls, more than the grand doors, Virgil loves the splendor of the wooden stage at the front and center of it all.

He loves the fake satin curtains that tie off in copper ropes to frame the platform. He loves the three steps that let the audience run onstage and the actors hide in the crowd. He loves the drop away spots in the floor for dramatic entrances. He loves thinking back on that glimmer of pride in Roman’s face as he’d help redesign the stage in their first year here.

Nothing had seemed to be able to make Roman happier in that moment besides, of course, his demands that his friends be allowed to help. Virgil still remembers seeing the reluctance of the design committee morph into ecstatic anticipation as Logan facilitated the layout of burned details into the wooden floor. Even in the little nick in the curtains from where Patton got confused with scissors remains, an integral part of Virgil’s enjoyment of the set. Somewhat less significant is the speeches he’d been made to give there, how every eye in the room seemed to zero in on him, on his flaws, on his stutters and murmurs. Deep down, he knows that’s not the case, that it was never the case, that getting a pack of teenagers to all focus on the same insecurity at the same time is nigh impossible, but his head always has a hard time believing that.

This disbelief is evidently well-founded, as each and every last head in the audience snaps to the front, where Myjhyrr Senthyirr brandishes a glistening sword at the front row. The clamor of voices dies down into hushed whispers of panic as the blade cocks back, gearing up to strike. Cries and shouts not to do it, to have mercy, to get help, to hold him back, all fall on deaf ears as Myjhyrr Senthyirr swings the sword down at the student before him. They gasp, flinching back and squeezing their eyes shut.

The sword comes to a screeching halt, its silver surface hovering inches from the kid’s face. “Now that I have everyone’s attention, let’s begin.” He hands the sword off to some teacher that scurries out from backstage, thanking the decidedly-not-emotionally-scarred kid for playing along. “TryMyts. Trytsu Commitments. Deciding who you want to be in thirty years when you’re only seventeen or eighteen. With the Trytsu thesaurus out of the way, I’m not going to waste any more of your time. As a senior student body, each of you is to decide which Trytsu truly fits you, then you’ll all do individual projects to pass and graduate, or else you’ll repeat the year.” Myjhyrr Senthyirr rolls his eyes as he speaks, clearly just as bored with the rehashing of information the students have known since birth as the students themselves are. “Pay attention, or I will bring the sword back out, and I will not be kidding this time,” he snaps, glaring at some kids goofing off in the front. At their snickers and jeers, he continues, “or I can just guarantee your projects get the harshest critiques because you weren’t paying attention during the mandatory explanation, so surely your work will be flawless if you don’t think you need my input. If you want to come back here next year, that’s your prerogative.”

Despite his own trembling nerves at the man he’d stood by not thirty minutes ago, Virgil can’t help but feel an impressed fearfulness at the guy. He certainly knows how to command a room, that’s for sure.

“If you all would be so kind, please join me in welcoming to the stage Myjhyrrs Kenthykyrrn, Ryhanthyrri, and Kessyn-Syrru.” Myjhyrr Senthyirr steps to the left edge of the stage, making room for three more adults to step into the light.

The willowy one, taller than anybody Virgil could remember seeing before and twice as thin, speaks first. Her braided brown hair sits atop her shoulder, spilling down to her waist. “I am Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn, and I will be working with those of you intending to enter the Research Trytsu. I dearly hope you will not disappoint.” She casts a slow, deliberate once-over across the room, as if she has all the time in the world and then some.

“Myjhyrr Ryhanthyrri, at your service.” Large in both size and demeanor, the one in the middle bows. “Of the Rehabilitate Trytsu.” He nods to the third and final person, letting them bow silently. “This here is Myjhyrr Kessyn-Syrru, and they’ll be representing the Resolute Trytsu.” They wave a hand at the growing thunder of applause—even as an advisor for TryMyts, they’ve evidently gained a following of students to favor them. Beside Virgil, Roman whoops loudly, cheering along with the crowd—no question which advisor he’ll be working with.

As the three file offstage, presumably to pack up their rooms and leave before the students can clog the exits, Myjhyrr Senthyirr nods his thanks to them. “I was told to break down every last detail regarding the trials and tribulations of the TryMyts, but who here is genuinely confused?” Not one hand rises, with northing so small as a cough ringing in the silence. “That’s what I thought. In any case, projects are due at the end of the year, and you can speak to the advisor for your target Trytsu if you have questions. Your specific designated times for doing so will be during your final period, as that will function as your work hour for your TryMyts. If you want to cut school and leave early, or goof off, or whatever it is you all do for fun, that’s up to you, but in the end, it’s your chance at a Trytsu on the line. I get paid either way. See me if you’re having trouble selecting a Trytsu or you have general questions that need not bother the advisor of your target Trytsu. Be sure to give your decision, as well as your project, a considerable amount of thought. Run your ideas by whoever will be helping you through this process, plan ahead, all that fun stuff. Until tomorrow, class dismissed. And remember—choose wisely.” With that trademark close off about picking Trytsun in hand, Myjhyrr Senthyirr makes his graceful exit.

Roman starts rambling about how excited he is to work with Myjhyrr Kessyn-Syrru, as well as ideas of how to sell his plan to his parents. Intentional or not, Virgil is grateful for the distraction from the horde of students trying to fit through doors far too small to handle all of them at once. On his other side, Virgil peers at Logan scrawling notes beside a remarkable portrait of Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn. Patton appears to think the same, pointing out all the intricacies of the scratches from the pen in Logan’s hand. The latter tucks the paper in one of his books, ignoring the disappointed sigh from Patton.

“Looks like pretty much everyone else cleared out. We good to go?” Roman steps into the aisle to let the other three out in front of him. As a group, they head for the door in an uneven line, Virgil lagging behind to glance at the stage where Myjhyrr Senthyirr remains, watching them leave with those piercing brown eyes. Virgil walks a little faster, welcoming the warm sun on his face as they finally leave behind the stale air of the building.

“Do you intend to tell your father about transferring into Rehabilitate, then?” Logan asks, cocking his head toward Patton. “I would not be opposed to accompanying you home, should that lessen any blows you may receive, verbal or otherwise.”

“I think it should be fine,” Patton says with a smile. Something in his voice tips Virgil off that he won’t be telling his dad, but Virgil isn’t about to out the guy. If Patton wants them to know, he’ll say so, but until then, it’s none of Virgil’s business. Virgil busies himself with picking at an eyelash stabbing at his eye to avoid Logan’s doubtful humming. “If we’re still on for tonight, I guess I’ll see you guys later!”

“Later,” Logan echoes.


	2. Chapter 2

Patton splits off from the other three, carefully using the warmth of their words to build a barrier around his heart. No telling how strong it’ll need to be tonight, but he can obliterate that bridge when he gets there—his dad isn’t supposed to be home quite yet. Picking up the pace, Patton pushes his black and blue glasses higher up his nose, trying to quell the rising terror that always accompanies his walks home.

The number of wild animals crawling out of bushes to greet him is less than reassuring—at this rate, they’ll follow him all the way back and his dad will use them as target practice. Patton shoes them off with handfuls of dried fruits from his bag, regaining his solitude by the time he reaches the front door. Thankfully, the house appears quiet, an unheard of occasion as of late. It’s a rare day when he isn’t greeted by furious yelling or pointedly aggravated silence—if Patton didn’t know better, he’d swear there was some sadistic being testing his resolve in striving toward pacifism.

“Please be okay, please be okay, please dear Cethyphyirr be okay,” Patton chants to himself, tripping up the stairs on his untied shoelaces. He ignores the gaping frame where his bedroom door had been just that morning and drops his bag to the floor, fooling himself into thinking it would be enough of a barrier to protect him. Without so much as a glance at the sea of garbage and mess at his feet, Patton wades through the clearest path to his closet door—still attached, praise Ceth. Shoving the shelves and weapons to the side, he removes the poster blocking a shallow hole in the wall to reveal a little cove of various babbling critters.

Tarasques and shedus and jorogumos alike peer out at Patton, each a different age and each recovering from some injury or another. Patton unrolls a cloth bandage, tearing it in the middle with his teeth and turning to the turtle-like tarasque. He patches up a hole in the shell, using his other hand to scoot aside the baying freybug that’s ventured out of the hole. The jorogumo skitters up his arm with several hairy legs, the face-like markings on its back seeming to wink at him.

“You guys are lucky this cavity came with a size charm, you know that?” Patton sighs, watching his hand shrink each time it enters the gap to escort out another animal. The shedu’s tail puffs up, consuming a majority of the opening and growing into the space. It blocks Patton’s access to the other creatures until he can nudge the creature back to shrink down again. “Yes, Dad, absolutely I should go into Resolute,” he mutters. “Certainly, my one true calling is taking up arms against the creatures that I want nothing more than to protect. How ever do you do it, figuring out exactly what’s best for me? Even teaching me to solve my problems with my fists, to the point that my friends already know they have to restrain me.” Patton grits his teeth, clenching his hands into fists as his jaw begins to ache. He only stops at the whimpering of the freybug, which backs toward the nest with a wary focus on him. Slowly, his fists relax. “Really, Dad, you truly are a wonder to behold. One to rival the Ejnathryk itself.”

“Patton Thyrrdyn!” A furious voice bellows from downstairs. Patton holds back a groan, quickly and methodically replacing the poster behind the weapons and shelves. The last creatures vanish just in time, as the name is repeated louder and closer than before.

“Hey, Dad,” Patton says, descending the stairs to look at the man in the front entryway. “What can I do ya for?” He feels his pulse quicken for the ever-present dread that his dad might find the hidden creatures, but this rage doesn’t look like that of a betrayed father.

“Care to explain why there’s dirt tracked in here?” The panic recedes, leaving only a slight irritation at such a loud yell for such a trivial complaint.

“Guess I didn’t notice. Sorry.” Patton turns to head upstairs, to escape before the discussion inevitably turns to TryMyts, but nothing can ever be quite so simple.

“Did they discuss Trytsu selection today?” The edge in his voice alone is enough to make Patton hesitate. “Don’t worry. I know you’ll pick the right one.” He pauses briefly, watching Patton back away with a nod. “I only want what’s best for you, kiddo. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

“I know.”

“So, any ideas for dinner?” A stab at conversation, and a poor one at that.

“No, but Logan, Roman, and Virgil are supposed to come over later. We were gonna try to get started on planning our TryMyts projects.”

“Who?” A hollow sigh takes up residence in Patton’s chest, begging to be released in a show of sheer aggravation. His dad has met all three of them several times over, and this is just an act to prolong the dying conversation. This information is the only thing keeping Patton from melting down into a stereotypical heap of groaning teen annoyance.

“Logan Thylktor, Roman Thyrrak, and Virgil Thriyv. We’ve been to each other’s houses a bunch of times, and you even met Virgil’s mom at orientation for senior year TryMyts stuff, remember?”

An ugly frown toys with his dad’s mouth. “The adoptive parents that don’t understand their place. Yeah, I remember those two.” It would be so easy for Patton to remark on his own mom’s absence, or how ridiculous it is to be upset that two people would willingly take in someone not related by blood, or how well-functioning the Thriyv household is, but he doesn’t. With thinly pressed lips and a slight dip of his chin, Patton retreats the rest of the way upstairs.

In his room again, he could easily get a head start on his project, or even on putting a dent in the mess on his floor, but that would be too easy. Instead, he lifts the lid from a glass box of miniature trees and grass, hidden in an unmarked crate beneath a heat lamp in his closet. After a moment, something small and green glides from one of the branches, its mottled red tail streaking behind. Patton allows that same wistful smile to cross his face, twin to the one that always appears when his healing creatures test out their reparations—rehabilitations, as it were. The amphiptere, a little winged serpent, finally comes to a rest at Patton again, concluding its tour of his room by wrapping its tail around his finger. The other hand, resting on the floor at his side, promptly stings with the dull pain of a bite.

“Hey,” he scolds softly, looking at the little beaked basilisk peeking out from his pile of clothes. In Patton’s defense, sometimes the mess is convenient. The reddish brown scales glow as it makes a muted guttural sound, its eyes barely cracked open. Damaged neurotoxin gland, a difficult fic to be sure, but that doesn’t mean Patton isn’t trying. The eyes, having long since recognized Patton as a protector, rather than a captor, avoid his gaze. Paralyzing its closest acquaintance probably isn’t the best course of action. Patton idly observes the progress of each of his creatures, whiling the time away until his friends can get over and ensure that his dad won’t barge in.

“Patton? Those Loman and Rogan kids you were talking about are here.”

He doesn’t bother to correct the names—the flub was probably intentional, anyway. Aimed at getting a rise out of Patton, prompting a reaction, proving he didn’t raise a broken boy that would never belong in Resolute. That what everything’s always been about, is trying to force Patton to stretch the extra three inches to fit in a six-foot mold. “Send them up, please.”

Of their own volition, the creatures return to their tanks and crates and corners, hiding from the people they don’t know well enough to trust. Only Patton is allowed to be graced with their presence, exclusively due to his persistence in trying to help them.

“Wish they’d stay out so I could meet them,” Roman comments on his way in, watching the speckled tip of the amphiptere’s tail vanish into the closet.

“Yeah, well.” Patton shrugs, nudging the door shut with his foot and clearing a path through the rubble of clothes on his floor. “Do we want to wait for Virgil?” Rather than answer, Logan drops his weight in papers to the ground, leaving Roman to carry the conversation on his own. Patton’s eyes track the motions of a few flyaway papers, floating gently like fallen butterflies.

“His mom said he didn’t come home this afternoon, and his mother was busy with a meeting, so his mom said he might stop by later, thanks for our time, but she really should be getting back to her notes.” Mid-sentence, Roman’s voice shifts up an octave in a remarkable imitation of Virgil’s mom. At least, as remarkable as the imitation of an adult woman can be, given that the imitator is a teenage boy.

“So basically, we’re on our own without the sarcastically comedic comments?”

“More or less.” Roman joins Patton and Logan on the floor, bringing his comparably meager supply of books with him. With one last sigh, Patton braces himself for the onslaught of work they have ahead of them. By the time a shadow falls over the small window on the far wall, he’s long since stopped paying attention to the outside world. He blinks, trying to force his hazel eyes to focus on what’s in front of him, to make sense of the endless lists and bullet points.

“What about this? A battle for glory in a ring of deadly creatures, lit by Cethyphyirr to symbolize your creation of a new existence into the world of an official Trytsu?” A decent suggestion from Logan, which lies in direct conflict with the neat scrawling on the paper he holds up—schematics for a Rehabilitate project. Patton squints at the paper, trying to comprehend Logan’s cramped handwriting—despite his penchant for artistic pursuits, he could certainly stand to improve his legibility. Although the situation might be less than ideal, it’s not the worst idea to circumvent Patton’s dad’s refusal to accept a non-Resolute Trytsu.

As Logan repeats himself for Roman to scribble the battle idea onto his notepad, Patton copies the written plan down in his own pages. “Hasn’t the whole ‘glory of Cethyphyirr’ thing been done before?” Roman pokes his cheek with an eraser, sticking his tongue out. “Not very original of a TryMyts, no offense.”

“First off, nothing is original,” Logan says, ticking off the reasons on his fingers. “Second, even if it’s been done, it hasn’t been done by you, which is what would make it stand out. Third, the point of TryMyts is not to be original.” He unfurls his remaining two fingers to gesture with his entire hand at Roman. “Every student might well do the same project, provided the result is worthy of finding a place in their Trytsu, be it that of their parents or a new one. Yours doesn’t have to be special. It just has to be effective.”

“But originality is what makes people stand out! What would you say if someone told you your work was boring, or had been done before?”

“In all likelihood, I would embrace the challenge of outdoing a previous accomplishment, though that should hardly be any of your concern.” The sparkle in Logan’s eyes sends a jolt through Patton’s spine, an inevitable debate waiting to ignite. “Suppose, Roman, that you were to do something entirely original. How, precisely, might you intend to pass off such a thing to your parents, if you don’t have the perfect grades to back it up? They will assume you won’t succeed if you haven’t succeeded already. Better yet, if there’s never been a safe trial run of your supposedly ‘original’ TryMyts before, how can you guarantee Pib’s safety when you attempt it?”

Patton is already on his feet and scurrying out of the room before Roman can come up with a retort, letting Logan’s triumphant debate-mode voice fade behind him. He makes up some excuse about getting snacks, the argument rapidly escalating and drowning out his mumbles. Of course, he already knows there’s no extra food lying around the house, but that’s beside the point. Even some ice to let melt on his tongue would be enough, just something to drown out his racing thoughts over Virgil’s absence. Suffice it to say, Patton was less than thrilled to hear about Virgil not making it home, even more so that he didn’t make it to the study session. He just needs a good distraction, is all.

Take an injured rabbit for example, on its side mere feet beyond the front door. Patton jumps down the last few stairs, ready to sprint outside and help—until his rescue is interrupted.

“Hey, kiddo, how’s it goin’?” Eyeing the suspiciously pink glow on his dad’s face, Patton shrugs noncommittally, desperate to keep his gaze off the rabbit. “How can you not know? Any project breakthroughs? Any of your little friends planning to betray their heritage and change Trytsun?”

“I don’t know, no, I don’t know, gotta go,” Patton says, bouncing between his feet and trying to squeeze past his dad. No dice, as the man has him trapped between the railings at the landing of the stairs.

“What about that Thriyv kid? Did his parents decide to keep their faux-altruistic ways out of other people’s lives for once?”

“I really don’t know. He might be over later, but I’m not sure.” For a split second, Patton lets his eyes dart to the door, where the rabbit remains. A pair of eyes gleams back at him in the darkness.

“Hey, hey, eyes on me, kiddo. Right here.” His dad grabs his shoulder, forcing his attention to snap back. “I just want what’s best for you, you know?”

“I know.” Ignoring the desire to remark on the peculiar way of showing affection, Patton finally slips under the arm braced against the wall. The eyes outside are closer than before. A dish of water, that’s all he needs, just a few seconds to get to the rabbit and get it hydrated and get it upstairs to safety. An ideal plan, simple enough in its success, if the faucet weren’t so slow, if all the dishes weren’t dirty, if his dad had moved sooner, if the rabbit were still warm. With his dad having disappeared to do Ceth knows what, Patton sinks to his knees beyond the door. The eyes have vanished, leaving only the vague sense of being watched as he carefully cradles the rabbit’s hind leg, snapped beyond a point of reason.

“I’ll help you, promise,” he murmurs, doing his best not to jostle the poor thing as he takes it to his room. Roman and Logan appear completely unsurprised as he sets about wrapping the rabbit’s leg and dribbling water into its mouth with a straw. The other two carry on with their discussion of possible TryMyts ideas, a relaxing backdrop of sound as he works. For however little it’s worth, the rabbit’s eyes slowly brighten, its body heat returning over the course of far too many minutes.

“Patton, I think we’re going to head out,” Logan says, jolting him from his concentration. “Our parents will be expecting us soon, and we don’t want to impose.”

“No problem,” Patton replies, barely taking his eyes off the twitching rabbit. “See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Roman agrees, offering a wave as he follows Logan out through where a door should be and down the stairs. Patton waits for the click of the closing front door, counting the moments that follow. After seven seconds, the inevitable complaints present themselves.

“Why did they have to stay so long?”

“Don’t know.”

“What are you doing?”

“Homework.”

“What?”

“Homework!” An edge of aggravation laces through Patton’s voice. This whole charade is as ridiculous and unnecessary as ever.

“Okay!” A twin spear of irritation lingers with his father’s response.

“If you need me to be louder, don’t go off at me for complying,” Patton mutters to himself, wishing he could slam the door shut. Of course, it doesn’t exist anymore, probably burned to high Ceth by now, in the name of his dad’s twisted ideas of what being in Resolute truly means. As the echo of a pitiful excuse for conversation fades, the annoyance on both ends slowly dissipates, the chasm of a closet remaining silent. With a careful parting of the obstacles, Patton places a finger into the charmed gap, watching his fingernail shrink down. The sudden visibility reveals all of his little friends curled up on top of one another, happily dozing away. To the quiet hum of the heat lamp’s whirring, the amphiptere huffs hot air out to match the warmth on its back.

Patton replaces the mess he’d sifted through earlier to disguise his creatures from sight, pleased at how well the posters and boxes blend in with the whirlwind of clothes and papers and projects. There, on the floor of his closet and slumped against the door, is how the morning sun finds him, an obnoxious beam on his crusted shut eyes. It takes a few slow, exhausted blinks for Patton to gather his bearings, before he jumps to his feet.

Mutterings of “gonna be late” and “crap crap crap” and “Ceth please lend me your speed” chase Patton around his room as he tugs on the first pair of shoes he can find. The clothes from yesterday will have to do, Patton decides, shouldering his open bag and running out the front door. Granted, the stolen bedroom door is a nuisance as well as an invasion of privacy, but it certainly allows for a conveniently fast exit. Down the sidewalk and onto the pavement, the pale sun overhead offers the smallest modicum of warmth for his shivering arms, coated in goosebumps. Twin birds flock behind him, cawing anxiously for their usual morning treats. Patton obliges, scattering a handful of raisins on the ground behind him as he sprints for the school. The last dregs of students filing into the building that rapidly crowns his horizon forces his legs to beat faster, his heart rate pulsing through every last nerve ending.

“Ceth, please, just a little faster,” Patton heaves, flinging his body into the building with reckless abandon. He collapses into his usual seat in his classroom—thankfully near the front door—and lets his head loll back as the teacher closes the door behind him.

“Late start, Thyrrdyn?”

“You could say that.” He lets himself laugh with the other kids, certain the bright pink burn of exertion is spreading rapidly across his face.

“Well, you sat down before I could shut the door, so I suppose I’ll let it slide. This time.” The telltale wry grin Patton sees toying with the teacher’s lips is enough to know he’s off the hook, with no bad blood to show for it. As the attention of the class reluctantly drifts back to the front of the room, turning minds toward pretending to learn, Patton tunes it out. He can get it all from Logan or Virgil later, rather than strain his willpower to be engaged now. More important of an issue is considering whether his room and reputation are safe, should his dad decide to snoop around while he’s gone.

The poster was definitely blocking the size-charmed nook, and he almost certainly knocked over the shelves and weapons in his rush to get out. At the very least, the mess should deter any would-be paternal inspectors of that odd spiderweb crack in the wall. There has to be something more, something else he’s forgetting, or he wouldn’t have this lingering sense of dread that something’s missing. Once more through the checklist, the heat lamp was on, the closet door was shut, the mess looked organic, everything important was contained behind closed doors, so everything should be fine.

“The rabbit!” Patton hisses, rapping the side of his fist on his desk. He darts his eyes around furtively, thanking Ceth that no one seemed to notice his outburst, but one mercy doesn’t solve another. He was helping the rabbit, Logan and Roman left, the mini-interrogation with his dad, and he passed out on the floor. The rabbit was probably long gone by the time Patton woke up—with any luck, it had at least partially healed. With any luck, it would know to hide itself, or get out while it still could.

With every moment that the teacher discusses whatever it is the class is supposed to care about, Patton feels his pulse pick up. If he could just run home, double check for any incriminating evidence, he could reassure himself and not have to fear his dad’s wrath. The bouncing of his eyes and the tapping of his feet aren’t exactly comforting ways to fidget, not to mention how they seem to agitate the teacher, but Patton can’t particularly find it in himself to care.

“Patton Thyrrdyn, do you have something you would like to share with the class?” He jolts, eyes wide as they focus on the imposing adult.

“Um, no, Myjhyrr. Sorry, I didn’t—Sorry.” Patton pulls his lips between his teeth, biting down until they tingle and the color drains away. Prodding the little teeth-shaped indents with his tongue, he smiles sheepishly at the teacher’s wary look. With a glare of warning, the teacher continues the lesson.

Maybe he could leave at lunch and be back by the next class, if he just sprints a little faster than his lungs would like to allow—but no, no, that wouldn’t work. The higher ranking people in charge of the school started assigning teachers to block off the exits months ago. Patton is well and truly trapped, and there’s nothing he can do about it. If he could just get to the door—

“Thyrrdyn! You know as well as I do that your record will tolerate very few further complications, and I don’t suppose you desire to toe that line. If you don’t want to repeat this year, I suggest you sit up, face forward, and pay attention.” It’s a bit difficult to discern what, exactly, is so pointed in the teacher’s words, but something in there makes Patton’s blood boil. The worst he’d ever done was give Than a much deserved nosebleed, and that’s hardly any of the teacher’s business to share in front of the whole class. As if they didn’t already know, didn’t already spread rumors to make him sound even worse, like he planned the attack instead of losing his grip on pacifism. At this rate, someone might well end up with a pencil stuck through their arm. Maybe a pen, just to spice things up from last time—which, in Patton’s defense, was an accident. It wasn’t his fault Than set his arm on Virgil’s homework after being asked repeatedly to stop. And besides, Than’s arm wasn’t the only casualty that day—Patton lost a perfectly good pencil.

At the teacher’s withering glare, Patton lets his eyes fall to his paper, covered in unintelligible doodles and half-hearted notes. Might as well pretend to pay attention now, if only to perfect his acting for when he’ll have to feign innocence at home. No time like the present to start coming up with an alibi. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time Patton was forced to be dishonest, anyway. He doesn’t necessarily want to hurt anyone, but if the good of the many outweighs the good of himself, of course he’s going to pursue the former.

By the time Patton reminds himself that yes, little white lies are okay in a few choice circumstances, the desks around him are empty, save for the kid asleep in the back corner. The teacher comes to a halt in front of Patton, an incessant clicking sound coming from beyond the desk. As the teacher begins to once more reprimand Patton for not paying attention, the clicking solidifies into the recognizable sound of a pen being shuttered and reopened far more rapidly than necessary.

“Thyrrdyn—” click “—you—” click “—need—” click “—to learn—” click “—to pay—” click “—attention!” Click click click. “I’m going to have to write you up if this continues.”

“Oh, no, there’s really no need for that,” Patton says, eyes trained on the infernal clicking pen. “Just an off day, you know?”

Click click. “It better be. Go on to your next class, but one” click “—last thing.” Click click click. “You’re aiming to switch into Rehabilitate, yes?” Click click.

“Yeah, but how did you—”

“Not—” click “—important. What is important is that I have a very close connection to the TryMyts advisors, including Myjhyrr Ryhanthyrri. It would be a shame if he were to find out about your poor aptitude for a place in the Rehabilitate Trytsu.” Click click click click.

“There’s really no need for that,” Patton repeats, wincing at his lack of more extensive protests. “I’ll do better, I swear, I just need to get the ball rolling on this year. Diving headfirst back into school and all, yeah?”

With a heavy sigh, the teacher’s eyes fly to the ceiling. The conversation needs to end soon, if Patton is to get to his next class on time, and they both know it. By some miracle, the clicking stops. His head hurts. “Look, Thyrrdyn, I just need you to pull your act together, alright? I’ve heard great things about you from other teachers, past violence excluded, and ideally I’d hoped you would keep it up for this final year. I don’t want to have to be the one to hold you back and make you redo your TryMyts, but I will, if that’s what it takes. Get it?”

“Yep.” Patton is already sidling toward the door halfway through the teacher’s hypocritical lecture, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “I will absolutely work on that in—whoops, sorry!” He dodges a student shoving their way into the room, half-wishing he could take back the apology when he realizes it’s just Than. No, nope, none of that, clean record in front of this teacher from here on out. Patton is nice and friendly and pacifistic and will act accordingly.

“Don’t disappoint me, Thyrrdyn.” The teacher sighs as Patton darts into the hall, out of earshot before the ominous warning can reach him.


	3. Chapter 3

A low groan, barely held back from being a full force scream, wrenches itself out of Roman’s throat. He slams the side of his fist on the table, wishing desperately that he could snap his pencil in half—no dice, as then he’ll have to explain to his parents how he ran out of writing utensils. Again.

“It just doesn’t make sense!”

“Roman, you need to calm down.” Logan’s patient voice, a vain attempt at soothing his rage, only serves to infuriate him more. For such an outwardly intelligent person, Logan should know that telling someone to calm down almost always has the opposite effect. Maybe he’s just a sadist, hell bent on seeing Roman squirm. Roman’s knuckles turn white on the table as he gnashes his teeth together. “Roman. People are staring. I know you tend to be fond of attention, but I suspect the nature of this attention is not that which you desire.”

With his fist hovering over the table, the side still tingling and pink from the last time he punched the surface, Roman breathes. He just needs to relax.

It doesn’t get better, but at least Logan can’t tell. Or, if he can, then his poker face truly belongs front and center on a well-lit stage.

“Just try it again. Read me the problem, and tell me the first step.”

“Using proper units of measurement, explain what one of seven times the integral from zero to seven ‘Q’ of ‘t’ derivative of ‘t’ is, given that ‘Q’ of ‘t’ is continuous and differentiable on zero less than or equal to ‘x’ less than or equal to seven. In other words, concisely explain just how much of an idiot Roman is, and demonstrate three ways to flunk him out of school, using proper units. Extra credit points if you can name the first five ways his parents intend to destroy him, but you only get the bonus points if you use the proper units that they told you one time, seven years ago, and expect you to remember now.”

“Roman.” Logan folds his hands in his lap, putting on a mask of sympathy. For what it’s worth, he’s certainly trying his best to help someone that refuses to accept how much they need it. “Be serious, and tell me what the first step of the real problem is.”

“The first step is to answer the question, Myjhyrr ‘I’m so smart because I’m going into Research’ Thylktor.”

“I’ll just wait until you calm yourself down.” Roman’s breath, coming fast and heavy, is the only thing he can manage to focus on, as total exasperation clouds his mind. Admittedly, it being free period for study hall or TryMyts work has cleared out most of the other students, but that doesn’t mean the cafeteria is empty. At least half of the top class is gathered in the room, socializing or sleeping or generally avoiding productivity. The pencil twitches in Roman’s hand.

“Hey guys, what’s up?” Patton asks, sitting down with a bag full of something that crinkles. Probably assorted candies. “Anything new I should know about? Major TryMyts breakthroughs? World-shattering news about an up-and-coming new student?”

“If you already know how stupid I am, then I think you should be up to date. Keep sharp, though, ’cause the numbers are rising off of charts that I can’t read in the first place.” For the first time since reading off the problem, Roman opens his exhausted eyes. Patton wears a sympathetic smile over his usual ensemble of a t-shirt and jeans. He offers a helpless shrug to a frazzled Logan, who adjusts his glasses and taps Roman’s paper.

“Math now, self deprecation and subsequent attitude correction later. Tell me what an integral is.” The same dance they’d been doing for the better part of an hour by now—Logan asks a question, Roman doesn’t know the answer, Logan remains patient, Roman wants to punch a wall. Simple as that.

“I heard attitude, here I am,” Virgil mutters, dropping into the free spot beside Patton. His eyes sag with dark purple rings.

“Where were you yesterday?” Roman asks. Logan gives an irritated huff as the attention shifts away from math.

“Out.”

“That doesn’t explain the more pronounced eye bags, kiddo.” Patton draws a wrapped candy from his bag, unpeeling it as he pretends to wait for Virgil’s explanation. Even being the one to point out the missing clarification, Patton knows better than to expect an actual answer if Virgil didn’t offer one in the first place.

“Whose class?” Virgil asks. He points at the paper in front of Roman, as if the chicken scratch being passed off as handwriting wasn’t already a dead giveaway.

“Prince Stupidity’s,”Roman says, glaring at his pencil and willing it to spontaneously explode. Preferably taking out his homework with it, but he’s not picky. Virgil prods a thumb against his lips and considers the assignment. After pocketing a handful of candy from Patton’s offered bag, he slides around the table to kick Logan out of his spot.

“My turn to play teacher. Maybe next time, Thylktor.” Logan moves into the newly vacant spot beside Patton, allowing Virgil to move in and prop an elbow on the table to examine Roman’s homework.

“Okay, so this one shouldn’t be too impossible, it’s just that you’ve been looking at it too long. It wants the integral of ‘Q’ of ‘t,’ and most of the rest of this stuff is just extra information. You don’t really need it for the main part of the problem. The fact that an answer exists tells you it’s continuous and differentiable, anyway, or they wouldn’t have said that an answer exists in the instructions.” Virgil tugs out the paper below the assignment, covered in graphs and doodles. “See how there’s no jumps or holes or sharp turns? That means it’s always defined.” Roman considers defining his own face with a moderate to severe jab of the pencil through his eye.

“So what?” The graphs tremble, not caring about how desperately Roman tries to glean some semblance of meaning from them.

“You tell me. Smooth and unbroken line means?” Virgil lets his voice trail off, waiting for Roman to fill in the blank. Maybe he can grab the blank and bean his teacher over the head with it.

Roman winces, already certain whatever crap answer he comes up with will be wrong. “The function is continuous?”

“And?”

“And differentiable?” He shouldn’t be this nervous to get something wrong on the homework, least of all with his friend here to help him, but apparently that’s just life now. Maybe Roman can just drop out of all his classes and start picking up back alley jobs for dangerous creatures causing trouble to other people.

“Right, good. So that means you can ignore all twenty three of these words here. Now, if you take an integral from here to there, what does that mean?”

A single tear of frustration forces its way out of Roman’s eye, the first sign of the dam inside preparing to burst in the middle of a room full of people who know him and would see and would know he’s letting down his parents and Pib and his friends and everyone else on the planet until he ends up as food for the trystopian animals because he just. Doesn’t. Get it.

“Roman, hey, hey, look at me. Right here, look here.” Unable to cooperate, can’t do it can’t just make himself do it, Roman focuses on the dark bruises under the eyes he can’t see. If he weren’t so stupid he could just get over himself and be done with it. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re not stupid. You’re an idiot and a goofball and a drama queen, and I don’t really know why I’m friends with you, but you’re not stupid. Now look at the problem again.” Roman looks. Roman still doesn’t get it. Roman wants to scream. “Start at the bottom. Integral from bottom to top. Time from bottom to top. What fraction comes before? No numbers, just top and bottom placeholders.”

Roman closes his eyes, willing the blurry memory of the messy notes to pop up in his head. “One over top plus bottom?” No answer. He’s wrong. He’s always wrong. “One over top minus bottom?”

“You’re literally so close. One more time. The whole thing.”

“One over bottom—no, top, one over top minus bottom, integral from bottom to top?”

“Which means?” The hope on Virgil’s face is almost more than Roman can bear. If he could just get this right, he wouldn’t have to fear letting his friend down right now. No guarantees there.

“The average temperature from top time to bottom time? No, no, units or something, and the actual time. Small to big. Bottom time zero, top time seven. The average temperature from zero to seven? But units, though. The average temperature from zero to seven minutes in degrees?”

Virgil stretches his arm across the table, letting Patton deposit a handful of candies in it. “Roman Thyrrak, pick your poison to rot your teeth, because you got it right.” The wave of relief that washes over Roman is indescribable. It feels almost as if he were at the bottom of the ocean, slowly crushed in darkness and dread, but he can finally breathe again, can finally hear again. The chatter of conversation in the cafeteria, the stale air of closed doors, it all floods his senses at once. One problem down. An entire year’s worth to follow. Roman ignores this looming sense of failure in favor of accepting one of the offered candies. It’s sweet, like cherry.

As is the natural course of life, another issue arrives to follow up the math debacle. It comes in a six foot tall package and wears a mocking grin beneath slanted green eyes. If Roman didn’t know better, he’d swear the fluorescent lighting of the room was playing with his head, trying to pass off the eyes as black. Black and shining and full of mirth.

More concerning than the look of pompous overconfidence in those eyes is the disconcerting presence of sheer hatred in Patton’s. Roman has only seen that expression on his friend a handful of times, and he’s not convinced he wouldn’t spontaneously combust if it were to be aimed at him.

“Hey, Than,” the table mutters collectively, most of its members praying for a swift and merciful end. Doubtful, but one can dream.

“So, I hear our resident ‘genius’ is falling behind in math?” That grin leeches itself into the dancing emerald shine of those eyes, his lips curving up viciously. “Would be a shame if his parents were to find out.” Virgil screws up a fist beneath the table, his fight or flight response kicking in on Roman’s behalf.

“Just get lost before someone does something they’ll regret.”

“Virgil.” The warning tone in Logan’s voice is more than a little subtle, but Virgil obviously doesn’t care. Roman almost feels a twisted sense of desire to see Than’s face get absolutely demolished, as if it didn’t look that way already.

“Yeah, Thriyv, come on. Don’t want word getting back to your parents, right? Well, guardians, I guess, since your actual parents didn’t want you enough to keep you. Maybe that makes two of us geniuses, since it’s pretty obvious why they didn’t.”

Roman sees his friend’s shoulders tense a split second too late, the momentum of his fist carrying him past Than, who ducks to avoid it. The sound of whatever snide remark he has prepared is promptly cut short by another, much more intent, fist. Patton’s glasses slide down his nose to meet the scowl behind his trembling hand. Time slows nearly to a stop as Than stumbles, tripping backwards over his boot-clad heels in an attempt to rise from the crouch he used to avoid Virgil. Than lifts a careful hand to check his nose, which appears unharmed, then swings out at Patton. Time sprints to catch up with itself.

In all honesty, Roman has no right to be surprised at Logan’s strength, despite how lanky his figure might be. Being raised by a Rehabilitate pair lends itself to wrangling creatures lends itself to yanking Virgil and Roman away from the impending fight without breaking a sweat. Relegated to cowering on the wall, Roman can only watch as Patton tears Than a new one, an eerie calm hovering over the two.

“You don’t get to talk to my friends like that,” Patton informs Than, as primly as if he were delivering a speech on the digestive system of the average zburator. With a swift knee slammed between his legs, Than goes down. Hard.

“Thyrrdyn! My office! Now!” Myjhyrr Senthyirr appears at the door to the cafeteria, wearing an impeccable poker face. Dropping his fist, which was poised to deliver another blow, Patton trudges to the door. Maybe he accidentally-on-purpose kicks Than’s fake-leather jacket on the way out, but it’s not like there are any witnesses that would admit to seeing it. There are, however, three friends watching, who follows Patton out as the other seniors in the room return to studying and socializing. Spectacle over. Overly defensive Patton knocks down a bully, the fight drains out of him, he gets horrified at what he’s done, it’s really just business as usual. To be fair, the amount of shock and disgust at himself tends to vary with each altercation, so to speak.

The general consensus tenes to be that Patton hates how present his dad is in his personality, all the way down to his fighting spirit. At least, that’s what Roman assumes. It’s not like this is the first time it’s happened, and it’s not like Patton has never sneaked over to Roman’s house before to whimper away the hours, desperate to understand how he could lose control so much, to understand how he could end up so similar to his dad despite trying so hard to be different—

But that’s not Roman’s information to share. Besides, the other kids have already looked away, not intrigued enough to see the smoking ashes begging for redemption in Patton’s eyes.

The little troop of kids marching for the darkened office pokes at something in Roman’s mind, stirring up inconsistencies. If Patton gets in trouble for standing up to someone on behalf of his friends, how is it okay for Resolute people to get in fights without consequence? Maybe the whole point is that the trystopian creatures aren’t good enough to deserve defense. Maybe Roman’s just overthinking the whole thing to take his mind off the way Virgil squints at the brightness in Myjhyrr Senthyirr’s office. The owner of said office leans against the board at the front of the room, looking oddly right at home amongst the disheveled stacks of projects and papers scattered about the floor. Roman tries to connect this image with the one in his head of the same teacher brandishing a sword to reflect a steely grin. It doesn’t work.

“I’m certain it’s no mystery why I called you down here, Thyrrdyn, and frankly, I might be a tad concerned if you didn’t already know.” Patton nods, the barest hint of sheepishness on his face. “I suppose your friends can stand to hear this as well, given how violence tends to spread once it’s been seen by the masses.”

“But we never—” Virgil’s protest dies in his throat, cut off with a wave of Myjhyrr Senthyirr’s hand.

“I don’t particularly care what you never did, as I’m far more interested in what you intend to do. That’s the whole points of the TryMyts, is it not?” Roman isn’t sure whether he should feel relieved at being allowed to stand by Patton, or bewildered at Myjhyrr Senthyirr’s utter calmness—a rare thing, for a teacher not to assume a ‘mightier than thou’ act. In a stage whisper, the teacher says, “this is the part where you answer me.” Even Virgil, looking just about ready to soil himself from the nerves involving confrontation, has to crack a wry grin at Myjhyrr Senthyirr’s humor.

“Yeah, that would be the point, so I guess you’re right.” Patton scratches the back of his head, an optimistic wince on his face. “So, am I in trouble or anything?”

“I can’t exactly let you off the hook for harming a defenseless student—” Myjhyrr Senthyirr holds up a hand to stop Roman and Logan’s overlapping protests to proclaim Than’s guilt. “A defenseless student, who could not and did not fight back, has just as much going on in their lives as you do, Thyrrdyn. Barring that, I know the first part of your last year can be a tough adjustment.” Threading a pencil between his fingers, Myjhyrr Senthyirr considers Patton, as well as the defense squad behind him. “This time can be a warning, but if you do something like that again? And it’s something that can be readily and easily avoided? I will not hesitate to go to myjhyrr Ryhanthyrri myself and have him fail your TryMyts this year. Do not let it happen again.”

With a jerk of his head, Myjhyrr Senthyirr sends the four boys scattering out the door, different levels of relief washing over each of them. Logan breaks the silence of Myjhyrr Senthyirr’s threat first.

“That could have gone significantly worse.”

Patton bumps his shoulder into Logan’s with a laugh. “Doesn’t mean Than didn’t deserve it.”

Stiffening, Virgil shoots Patton a look of worry. “Don’t go sinking down to his level on us. He’s a jerk, but that doesn’t mean you have to be one, too.”

“Says the guy who used to be his best friend.”

“What can I say? I upgraded.” With an elbow to the ribs, Virgil goes quiet as the group passes the cafeteria, The bell to signal the end of the school day chimes, sending a herd of wired students to the exit. Amidst the stampede stands Than, hand cupped over his nose. Despite his best attempts not to stare, Roman can’t help the morbid curiosity at the red splotches staining Than’s face. Patton really did a number on the guy—to put it lightly—no matter how much he might regret it after the fact.

“So, Roman,” Logan says, “do you suppose I might come over to work on that science project with you?”

The attention diversion does more than enough, as Than pushes off the wall and heads for the rear exit. Roman shakes his head, trying to ignore the silent exchange that passes between Virgil and Than. “What science project?”

“I had the same class last year. Your first assignment is this project, half the battle of which was to notice it on the board and do it without being told.” Logan pulls a sheet of paper from Roman’s bag, pointing at the impossibly large stack of letters. “Do you want help or not?”

Roman’s response has to wait, as he lags behind to be polite and hold open the door. Evidently a mistake, as the flood of students doesn’t let up enough for Roman to slip out.

“What was your answer, then?”

“That would be stupendous.” Catching up to his impatient friends, Roman flicks a strand of brown hair out of his eyes and sets off down the path home.

“Virgil? Any plans?” Patton asks, clearly trying to invite Virgilv to something so he doesn’t feel left out. Roman wishes he’d thought to do so sooner.

“Yeah, I’ve got—there’s—I’ve got stuff.” Virgil’s face recedes under his hood as Patton nods, the former eyeing the burning sun warily. Redirecting his attention to Logan, Roman gives an absent minded wave to Patton, who splits off for his own house. An unenthusiastic half-salute from Virgil, and Patton is gone.

With his main catalyst for conversation gone, Virgil goes quiet under the torrent of Roman and Logan’s banter. “So what’s the project supposed to be? I haven’t learned anything that I can do an experiment on, have I?”

“Barring the fact that you’ve already had twelve years of schooling upon which to build, the teacher just wants to see that you can change the color of some liquid. Basic stuff, really.” Roman nods, kicking a stray rock forward a few steps. Virgil keeps with the game as the rock skitters to a stop before him, a prime opportunity to kick it further. The echo of the pebble rings loud in the quiet afternoon, filled otherwise with only the distant calls of crows floating on the wind. Soon enough, amidst the cool breeze chilling Roman’s skin, the corner leading to his and Logan’s houses approaches, signaling the time for the trio to disband.

“Later,” Virgil mumbles, continuing his slouched ambling without so much as a wave. Despite having no real inclination for scientific discovery, Roman feels his curiosity sprinting at full force about what Virgil could possibly be doing instead of hanging out with his friends. It’s not like he has homework—no no no, he would’ve done that at lunch, or after helping Roman with his math. Granted, there was the whole Than interruption, but that’s beside the point. The question still stands, though, of the goings-on of Virgil’s life that no one else was allowed to see. Ceth only knows, and Roman certainly isn’t of that high a caliber to find out, despite how much he might want to be.

“Do you need to stop home for anything, or do you just want to come straight over?” Rather than answer, Logan leads the way to Roman’s door for him. “Straight over it is, then.”

The front door, smattered with a messy red and brown finish, yawns open into the main entryway of Roman’s house. For how similar it is to pretty much every other house in its immediate vicinity, the room decorations do a considerable job of making it feel bigger, more grand. As if the dangling lights and crystal embedded walls weren’t enough, the two adults just beyond the door are more than sufficiently imposing all on their own.

“Hello, Roman.”

“Hey, Mom. We’ve got this science project to get to, so I just—”

“That’s fine. Thylktor, always a pleasure to see you.”

“Grades?” The man, ridiculously tall and bearing crossed arms, maintains an utterly expressionless face as he looks down his nose at Roman.

“Passing.”

“Bring them up.” Without so much as a hint of interest of affection, both adults vanish through another door, leaving Roman alone with Logan.

“They seem cheerful as ever.”

“Don’t kid yourself. Let’s just get to work.”

“Hey, guys!” a voice calls from upstairs, the only cheerful sound in the house. As Roman and Logan reach the top of the stairs, they poke their heads in the door, cracked open and inviting.

“Hey, Pib. How’s it going?”

“Boring.” A nearly perfect copy of Roman swivels around in a pale red chair, rolling their eyes behind a pair of navy-rimmed glasses. “You know, it’s your fault I have to do all this extra crap by myself.”

“Not my fault I’m the family disappointment. Someone’s gotta do it.” Roman ducks under the pencil launched over his head, which Logan catches without hesitation. “If you didn’t want to be homeschooled, you shouldn’t have let Mom in on how smart you are.”

“This is because of Dad and you know it.”

“Your face is because of Dad.”

“So is yours, and don’t remind me. Go do your homework, loser.”

“Later, nerd.”

“Always a pleasure, Pib.” Pib barely nods their head while Logan closes the door, already returning their focus to a veritable mountain of papers stacked beside them.

“They seem well.” Roman shrugs, opening the door to his own room. Compared to Pib’s, which was nearly bare save for the paperwork, Roman’s room is so far into its own extravagance that the floor is but a distant memory. He clears a path to his bed with his feet, dumping his bag on the blanket pile when he arrives. Logan follows suit.

In tandem, they work through the crumpled piece of paper from Roman’s backpack, so used to collaborating that they hardly need words. It’s not until Roman feels a shiver run down his spine that he realizes how late it is, how far down the sun has gone. By some miracle of Ceth or a blessing of the Ejnathryk, the experiment is nearly complete. Just a few more drops of whatever Logan has in his hand, and the bespectacled boy can go home to do his own homework. At least, he would go home, had Roman not picked that moment to adjust his sitting position, which jostles Logan’s posture and sends far more solvent than necessary into the jar. It explodes in a gentle cloud of purple mist.

“Are you serious?” Logan removes his glasses, exposing two clean rectangles on his face, outlined by the spray of purple. Even his hair isn’t safe, as most of the top part shines a deep violet hue.

“Maybe?” Roman grins sheepishly, more focused on his amusement at Logan than on his own stinging eyes. “I mean, at least it changed color, right? Plus, now we can match Myjhyrr Senthyirr! I bet we get extra credit for originality and representation of other teachers, don’t you think?”

“I do not. You’d better hope this washes off easily, because if it weren’t non toxic, I would destroy you with your own project.” Letting his threat hang in the air, Logan takes his bag and leaves. Roman stares at the door, bouncing between wanting to laugh and wanting to fear for his life. Based on the look in Logan’s eyes, it’s probably more of the latter.

“Hey, Pib, I’m not your twin anymore!” Roman calls, inspecting his newly colorful hair in a hand mirror. It only hurts a little bit when Pib doesn’t answer. While the color on his face smudges slightly before flaking off to join the mess on the floor, the particles clogging up his hair stay firmly in place.

“Okay, so that’s definitely never coming out. Awesome.” As Roman moves on to his other homework, content to let the color stay, he knows that elsewhere in the house, the rest of his family is doing more of the same. Granted, Pib is doing far more advanced work than him, and their parents are doing some of the most gibberish-filled paperwork in their field, but that doesn’t bother Roman.

Much.

He’s perfectly happy to flounder along with his average achievements, barely passing the already low bar that his parents have set. So no, he doesn’t love the whole charade of being the star student that isn’t homeschooled but reveals himself to be utterly lackluster and average at best when he comes home, but that’s okay. He just has to make it through the rest of this year, and then he can switch Trytsun and his parents won’t control his every move. He’ll be able to have fun and battle creatures and defend his friends and do whatever he wants to once he gets out of this pseudo-Research agenda he never agreed to. At the very least, he knows he’ll have Virgil and Logan to force him to learn against his will in the meantime. If not for them, then he can do it for Patton, who always believes in him, even when it’s definitely unprecedented. Maybe even for Than, who has his own load of garbage to muddle through, but maybe seeing Roman succeed would be enough to break down the barriers of cruelty surrounding Than’s heart. After all, Virgil used to like the guy, once upon a time, so there must be something redeeming about him.

“If I really belong in Resolute,” Roman tells himself, “I’m going to protect the life out of everyone now.” Despite knowing he’s alone in an empty room, he half expects triumphant music to sound off at his declaration. To be fair, he’s been putting off work by saying the same speech every night for years, and it hasn’t done all that much for his flagging morale.

Which means he still needs to finish his math homework.


	4. Chapter 4

In Logan’s defense, getting his hair dyed purple out of nowhere was an extremely inconvenient occurrence to suffer through this early in the school year, when he has to walk home for an important discussion with his parents that has been repeatedly delayed. That’s what he thinks with his hair dyed purple, this early in the school year, on his way home for an important discussion with his parents that has been repeatedly delayed.

He is, of course, far too rational to rattle off his innermost grievances to the open air of the night. He is not, however, beyond the common compulsion to let his thoughts run rampant through his head. This is what he tells himself to explain away the impulse to shout with reckless abandon.

What logical reason cannot explain away is exactly why he pauses to observe the hissing hybrid of a fox and a raccoon, more commonly called a rokon, at his doorstep. It cannot explain away the pang of a stricken chord in his chest. It cannot explain away his impulse to help the creature. It cannot explain away the distant sense of longing as he moves to get around it. It cannot explain away how much it hurts to tear his gaze from the poor thing. So instead of explaining it away, Logan doesn’t attempt anything of the sort. The door lock slams shut between him and the rokon.

“Hey, how’s Roman doing?” his mother asks. Around her shoulder is slung the arm of Ren, their fingernails bit down to the nail bed. More distracting than the nails is the barely contained laughter from Ren, who claps a hand over their burbling mouth.

“Nice hair situation you’ve got going on there.”

“Preposterous. Stop your humor at my expense and tend to the rokon waiting on the doorstep, why don’t you?” There’s the barest hint of a sting to his words, but neither Ren nor his mother mind too much. Well used to Logan’s blunt mannerisms, they set about helping the hissing creature inside. Only when it sprawls out on the floor, claws clacking at each other with each tremble that racks its body, only then does Logan move for a different room.

Purely scientific curiosity, he tells himself. That animal’s wellbeing has no impact on my personal life or concerns, and it would be an act of foolishness to foster a fondness for it. His rational points don’t stop the returning images of the rokon that hound his mind. That’s to be expected, though, in a house filled with recovering creatures. An amphiptere dangles by its tail from a loose column in the ceiling, cheerfully blowing spurts of flame to lick at Logan’s purple hair. Between his legs weaves a young zburator, its breath fiery hot as its wings scrape gently over his calves. Logan allows it, admiring the elegant flicking of the coatyl’s tail as it comes to rest upon his shoulder. Purely out of scientific curiosity, of course. Not because he cares for the creature, or wants to feel its coat running over the back of his hand, or likes being in such close proximity to the animals. That would be silly.

As everyone knows, scientific research must be done over a measurable period of time as a controlled basis. This is what Logan tells himself as he heads for the kitchen, a veritable parade of rokons and freybugs and zburators and more crawling and flying along behind him. Scientific research that prompts Logan to oblige the zburator with a scratch behind its wolf-like ears. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

That’s what he’ll continue to tell himself, too, as he takes a harsh splash of hot water from the kitchen sink across his face. Again and again, to the tune of chirping songbirds and growling dragons, Logan methodically swipes his purple-stained hands over his skin until the water runs clear. His hair, on the other hand, remains a stubborn shade of violet.

“At least no one can say they won’t pay attention to me.” The reasonable thought is fleeting, overtaken by the odd notion that Logan would talk to himself in an empty room. Nearly empty, that is, aside from the unending deluge of creatures trying to sidle up to him. He brushes one back with a gentle shuffle of his foot. A set of nail-bitten fingers grips the doorframe, announcing the arrival of Ren immediately behind.

“Hey, buddy, you ready for our little meeting?” Yes. Right. The meeting with his mother. The meeting about TryMyts they’d never gotten around to having, because Logan would rather squirrel himself away in his room than confront familial issues.

“Yes.” Logan follows Ren out into the room branching off from the front entryway, an almost perfect copy of the entrance to Roman’s house. Where glittering lights and cold, sharp edges live in the Thyrrak residence, the Thylktor house feels much more like a home, in Logan’s credible and purely objective opinion. Warm, soft lighting, organized chaos amidst a flurry of wings and claws, every wall a makeshift fridge on which every last one of Logan’s drawings hang. Ren rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder, the lack of nails familiar and comforting, as they wait for his mother to finish up with the rokon on the floor. In the meantime, Logan tugs down a crude pencil sketch of a zburator, scrutinizing the imperfections in the crosshatch shading. Maybe with a thinner tip and closer lines with a higher frequency between strokes and—

“So you have TryMyts coming up.” His mother glances at his sheet of paper, letting the rokon skitter away. “They’ve probably been discussing that a bit more than the finer points of artistic pursuits.”

“Accurate.” If Logan had less self control, he might bounce on his toes from nerves. Of course, being a completely rational and controlled person, he doesn’t do that—maybe he rocks on his heels a little, but that’s a completely different thing.

“Now Logan, you know we care about you.”

“So much.” Ren’s head bobs in vehement agreement.

“And you know we support you.” Releasing a slow stream of air through her nose, his mother closes her eyes. “No matter which Trytsu you decide you belong in.”

“Even if you don’t stay with us. If you leave Rehabilitate, if you think that’s what’s best, we will continue to support you.” Ren folds their arms, tightly squeezing their biceps as they move to stand beside his mother. “But you have to be certain.”

“You never really had a teenage rebellion phase, thank Ceth.” A ghost of a laugh escapes his mother’s lips. “We just want to be sure that switching is what you really want to do, and not a delayed outburst to break through the monotony of daily life.”

Logan finds the power, somewhere in the darkest recesses of his head, to tear his gaze away from the drawing in his hands. “Ren. Mother. Your support has always meant the world to me, but I truly think that I belong in Research. I am sorry for any heretofore disappointment I have caused, in addition to any new disappointment that may arise, having informed you of my decision.”

Ren and his mother jump to their feet in a panic. “No, no, no, don’t apologize!”

“It’s what you want!”

“Don’t let us hold you back!”

“We just want you to be happy!” Their voices overlap, a twisting river of words that swarms around Logan’s head like furiously comforting honeybees. Following an unnecessarily long mismatched speech of mollifying, they finally stop to breathe, to smile at Logan, to let him have the floor in his own conversation.

“This is what I want.”

“And it’s what you deserve.”

“Just know that we still love you, Logan. We always have, and we always will.” He goes up to his room.

Of course they still love him. Obviously. It’s basically a given at this point, if he’s being honest. They’re his parents, they have to love him. They don’t have a choice. Logan knows this is a dense thought, that it isn’t always true, but it’s been his reality for years now, and he’s sticking with it. Sticking with the idea that loving him isn’t a choice, or a question.

Sort of like how Logan doesn’t have a choice about the stubborn purple hue of his hair. It remains well into the night, casting a pale violet glow over his homework. It tints the world periwinkle through a few flyaway strands, but never does it stain anything else, not even his fingers. Logan has to wonder whether magic was involved, some stray spark from the Ejnathryk that managed to ignite in Roman’s room, the way that crevice spawned in Patton’s closet.

Rubbing the offending locks between his fingers, he decides against it. Probably just inaccurate proportions during the experiment, too much solute or something. Or something, he thinks, with half a mind to let a disbelieving snort escape. He catches himself just in time, returning his focus to the problem at hand. With any luck, he reasons, it’ll be gone by morning. This alone is enough to send Logan to bed earlier than normal. That, and his homework is already done from the spurts of free time at Roman’s house, so maybe he can get an optimal four hours of sleep for once. Judging by his eyes refusing to close, though, it looks like another sleepless night is far more likely.

Like so many times before, the morning proves him to be correct. Logan rises with the sun, putting on the same crisp outfit as always, straightening the same pristine glasses as always, swiping the same paint under his eyes as always, ignoring the same purple bruises of sleeplessness as always, setting his jaw in the same placid clench as always. A swarm of miniature dragons follows him through the process, chasing him around the house and calling out to their fellow trystopian creatures, who hover around his parents. Ren and his mother hardly give so much as a wave as he squeezes out the front door, barely keeping the dragons inside. It doesn’t bother him much, though. He could hardly expect his parents to divide their attention to make room for him, rather than focusing it on creatures that genuinely need it, that genuinely deserve it.

A few houses down, Roman sticks a choice finger in the air, likely aimed at Pib upstairs. From past interactions, Logan knows Pib to wait at the window, to watch and remember the times they could join the boys on their trek to school. Roman’s single raised digit turns into five, a wave to Logan, who returns the gesture with significantly less enthusiasm. Roman’s hair is still purple, too.

The walk, like so many before it, is painfully uneventful. A few smaller creatures dart between bushes, but none have the courage to approach the boys. People tend to spell danger for unsuspecting creatures, no matter how good their intentions might be. People also tend to spell danger for their fellow human. Maybe people in general are dangerous, Logan decides.

Once again, he is proven right, as demonstrated by some kid holding another against the wall the the school by the neck of their shirt. Without having to ask, or even turning to look, Logan knows Roman is already rushing to the kid’s rescue. Logan hangs back, content to maintain a slow pace and observe the outcome of Roman’s brashness from afar. It’s what comes out of Roman’s mouth that makes Logan start running.

“Than?”

The kid pressed against the wall falls to their knees, coughing and gasping as the other, the one who had been holding them up, darts into the building. Roman doesn’t bother following, far more concerned with the heaving one. Confusion wrinkles Logan’s brow when he sees the cruelly slanted eyes of the kid. Than.

With his face slowly receding from an alarming shade of reddish purple, Than scowls up at Roman, swatting aside the offered hand to help him up.

“I didn’t need your help.” Roman purses his lips, eyeing Than’s steadily dripping nose, eyeing the water welling up to race down Than’s cheeks. Than rises, pushing off his knees to get up without assistance. Roman raises his hands in surrender as Than heads inside with an almost imperceptible limp.

Almost.

“Ceth, what’s your damage?” Roman mutters to himself, leaving Logan alone before the school as he follows Than in. Logan folds his arms, considering the patch of grass where a trio had been mere moments before. No sign of the altercation remains—at least, no sign that couldn’t be passed off as lingering dew from the morning. Straightening his glasses, he walks through the door to the tune of the first warning bell chiming.

“Good morning, Myjhyrr Reythnyrryk,” Logan murmurs as he slips into his classroom. The teacher at the front of the room smiles halfheartedly, not looking up from her pile of ungraded papers. His usual desk, in the second row and as far left as he could get, remains miraculously empty. That probably isn’t saying much, given that most of the other desks in the room are still unoccupied. Hardly any final year students care enough to show up on time, especially to a first period history class. This baffles Logan, as he finds the stories of Cethyphyirr and the Ejnathryk utterly fascinating.

A slow but steady stream of students finally trickles in at the penultimate warning bell, the majority of them clustering at the back of the room. Their conversations rise to a dull roar, pleasant enough white noise as Logan sketches a profile of Myjhyrr Reythnyrryk on a scrap piece of paper. Despite his genuine enjoyment of the mindless activity, he can’t say he’s disappointed when the final bell tolls.

“Good morning, folks!” The responding mutters of greeting from the class as a whole don’t sound too unlike that of a cult. “Who’s ready to learn about why we exist?” A cheap baiting tactic to make learning sound fun, but Logan has to give her credit for trying. “Okay, well, who can tell me the name of what acted as a catalyst for our world to gain life and meaning? Anyone besides Thylktor.” Logan puts his hand down. “Come on, you’ve all been learning this stuff for twelve years now, some of you even longer! I even gave you a crash course at the top of the year! No one? No one wants to contribute besides Thylktor? Cethyphyirr, popping off polaris as a flicker? A shambling mass of light and shapes? The first fantastical being?

“Have you all learned nothing? How about the waves it shot over the planet when it crashed into the North Pole? Thylktor, put your hand down. Anyone else, the Ejnathryk? More Polaris pieces hitting the North Pole, more creatures spawning, humans starting to show up? Thylktor. Hand. Down. The Ejnathryk fragments generating heat as they entered the atmosphere, warming the planet? Diversifying life? Making it possible for humanity to survive winters and develop systems to survive endlessly harsher conditions?” Myjhyrr Reythnyrryk throws her hands up with a huffy sigh. “Just do this worksheet. I don’t know why I bother trying to make these things fun for you. Thylktor, do not start with me.”

Logan’s doodles turn darker and angrier, annoyed at the continual busy work that he only has to do because his peers don’t know the meaning of ‘class participation.’ The assignment takes mere minutes to finish, little more than a basic rehashing of information he already knows. Frankly, Logan has no right to be so irritated—he’s been through it for over twelve years of schooling, he ought to be used to it by now.

So Logan buries himself in drawing, in blocking out the inconveniences wrought by his classmates. He buries himself in thinking about the past. He buries himself in planning his TryMyts. He buries himself in having no idea what he’s doing.

A day full of weeks and a week full of days flashes before his eyes. It’s as if he blinks and wakes up a couple hundred hours later, having completely lost track of time as a whole. He has no idea what day it is anymore.

Logan digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to put together how, precisely, he’d wound up in the cafeteria. And with the past few days a hazy memory, no less.

“What do you think?” Logan shakes his head, realizing the question was directed at him. Why can’t he see the person who asked it? Just a blurry fog. “Dude, your glasses. Is the purple hair rotting your brain or something?” Setting the aforementioned glasses back on his face, Logan inhales. Exhales. Resets.

“Pardon, what did you ask? I might have been lost in thought for a moment.” A moment, a day, a week, what’s the difference when no one asks?

Roman leans forward, tracing his index finger in circles on the table. “About Than. He’s been, like, weirdly quiet this week, especially after we saw him dealing with that kid.”

“What kid?”

“Patton, I literally just told you the story. Try to keep up.” A jab, but a friendly one at that. Patton smiles to himself as Virgil knocks their shoulders together. The latter sticks his tongue out around a mouthful of fruit. “So Logan, what do you think his deal is?”

“I don’t want to start any gossip chains.” The faint chatter in Logan’s ears grinds to a halt as the other three stare at him in shock. Roman’s plastic fork clatters, a dull rattling on the table.

“Logan,” Virgil says gently, as if coaxing a terrified rabbit from a bush, “you literally have the dirt on everyone in this school. You even know the deepest, darkest details of the teacher’s lives.”

“That’s just another form of knowledge, all of which I am determined to collect. Knowing the ins and outs of other people’s relationships and activities allows my mind to expand and interpret more possibilities, based on their decisions. I merely choose to look at it as learning.” Logan takes a prim sip from a bottle of water, stolen when Roman wasn’t looking.

Roman snatches it back, screwing the lid on in a huff. “That’s great, Ej-nerd-thryk, but how about your thoughts on Than?”

“He’s often rude to us and others, so someone probably decided to stand up for themselves, out of sight of teachers.” Logan pauses to survey the room, looking for any sign of Than. “Whether they chose to do so with words or fists was their own prerogative.”

“Speak a’ Kryntyk,” Virgil mutters, jerking his chin toward the door. Than sweeps in with his arms spread wide, effectively destroying an hour’s worth of project progress for the kids on their hands and knees by the door. Virgil clutches Patton’s arm before the latter can stand to roll up his sleeves. As Logan rests a reassuring hand over Patton’s, one more anchor to keep him from doing something he’ll regret, Than strides over. A trail of scattered papers and scowls rises in his wake.

“What do you want?” Roman glares at Than, who ignores him to lean down and whisper something to Virgil. After a moment, Than straightens, leaving Virgil sheet-white and frozen. Than doesn’t get five steps away before he’s flat on his face, Patton standing over him, no Virgil to hold back his impulses now. Somewhere in Logan’s head, he knows he should move, should intervene, should stop Patton, but he finds himself as motionless as Virgil. It takes Patton sinking to his knees, fighting himself not to keep going at Than, for Roman to get involved. When a stray swing barely misses Than and nearly clips Roman, Logan snaps back into the moment, helping Roman haul Patton off of Than. Patton strains against them, furious breaths heaving through his nose as some internal war brews, an urge to fight battling a demand to stay pacifistic. Odd, Logan thinks, Than didn’t even fight back. He just waited for whatever would come.

“Thyrrdyn!” Myjhyrr Reythnyrryk hisses from the entrance to the cafeteria. With that one word, all of Patton’s rage drains out of him. He goes slack, letting Roman tug his limp body to the door. Logan lags behind, watching them go as he tries to get Virgil’s attention. Somewhere between Roman disappearing with Patton and Virgil finally blinking again, Than manages to vanish without a trace. Somewhere between getting Virgil up and finding where Patton went, Logan pauses to wonder why the guy wants to go into Rehabilitate in the first place. Likely to distance himself from his father, but that’s none of Logan’s business. He could make it his business, he supposes, but that’s neither here nor there.

“—every right to expel you right now!” If Logan didn’t already know where Myjhyrr Reythnyrryk’s office was, the yelling would be a dead giveaway. He leads Virgil in, placing him with Roman against the wall. Patton stands before Myjhyrr Reythnyrryk, biting his lip and clearly trying not to cry. His jaw trembles. “You’re lucky I don’t call Myjhyrr Senthyirr in here and have him fail you on your TryMyts for this!”

“What are we calling me in here for?” Myjhyrr Senthyirr pokes his head in the door, a conspiratorial grin on his face. Logan seizes the opportunity.

“Just how Myjhyrr Reythnyrryk is trying to call my bluff by threatening my friend, who acted purely out of self defense.” With folded arms, Logan smirks, a facade of confidence coming to rest on his face. “She doesn’t think I’ll tell the whole school about what she tried to do to Myjhyrr Kessyn-Syrru this summer.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” The utter hatred and betrayal in Myjhyrr Reythnyrryk’s eyes only grows aws Myjhyrr Senthyirr forces back a laugh at the theatrics.

“Just let the kid off with a warning. Trust me, you don’t want to mess with this Logan kid.” Myjhyrr Senthyirr shoots Logan a wink, jarring the student’s resolve. Logan has certainly never tarnished Myjhyrr Senthyirr’s reputation. At least, not that he can remember. He’s tarnished a fair amount of reputations over the years, so forgetting one here and there is possible.

A low and guttural sound comes from Myjhyrr Reythnyrryk as she shoves Myjhyrr Senthyirr aside to get out of the room. Her fading footsteps resemble those of a child throwing a temper tantrum.

“You’re getting off lucky here, kids, but Thyrrdyn? Maybe lay off the fighting for a little while, hm? I dearly hope you haven’t forgotten what I said the last time we had a meeting like this.” Myjhyrr Senthyirr quirks his mouth to the side, looking out the door where the other teacher had just been. “Never cared much for Myjhyrr Reythnyrryk, to be honest. So full of herself.” He leaves them with the echoes of his remark as he heads down the hall.

“Let’s take the long way home,” Roman finally says. The silence of the room, of the guilty Patton, or the frozen Virgil, the whole of it shatters as said frozen person reanimates all at once.

“We just need to leave before he becomes a problem again. Now.” Virgil is through the door and out of the building before any of the others can question his lapse in reactions. As they follow him out, Logan has to wonder which ‘he’ Virgil meant as a possible problem. Than?

Or Myjhyrr Senthyirr?

“What was that you said about not starting gossip chains?” Patton asks, clearly trying to take the attention off of whatever Virgil might be dealing with. He leads the trek to the doors, holding them open for the other two as Virgil waits impatiently outside. Logan rolls his eyes, feigning indifference to Patton’s question.

“I have no idea what you mean. I merely insinuated that Myjhyrr Reythnyrryk made some less than savory decisions within the last few months. If she hadn’t reacted, my hypothesis would have had no solid ground on which to stand. To be frank, it’s her own fault that she couldn’t get you in trouble.” Even through the humored smile, Logan can see the glimpse of gratitude buried beneath the guilt in Patton’s eyes.

“More importantly, you need to tell me every piece of gossip you have on my teachers,” Roman cuts in. “Just enough blackmail to fall back on if my grades start dropping again.”

“Not going to happen, Thyrrak.” A rock skips out from under Logan’s feet, coming to rest before an oddly shiny patch of dirt. “Just a moment.”

Upon closer inspection, the dirt itself isn’t shining—a few strands of fur reflect the afternoon sun, the first clump of what appears to be many, sprawling out like a makeshift path. Logan kneels, pinching a piece of fur between his fingers. Its gleam and color are so familiar, he’s certain he’s seen it before. In a book, in a drawing, in a sleepless night, something.

The other pieces offer no further clues, only more confusion as to their origin. At the very least, the clumps increase in size as they get further from Logan. He brushes aside an obstructive piece of purple hair from his eyes and considers the situation. There has to be some sort of nest at the end, or a cave of—

“Logan?” He snaps his head up, remembering the presence of the other three. “Got anything you’d like to share with the group?”

“Not quite, but none of you have started your TryMyts yet, right?”

“Not even a little bit.” Roman nods twice, inordinately proud of his lack of preparation. His violet hair flutters gently in the afternoon breeze, obviously less of a nuisance to him than it is to Logan.

“Well then.” Logan sits back on his haunches, looking up at the assorted faces staring down at him. “I think we might have a delay in beginning our projects tonight.”


	5. Chapter 5

To say that Virgil is worried would be akin to saying a raging forest fire in the middle of summer is a tad bit too warm for comfort. Virgil is terrified out of his mind, and not just for what Than said, but for how his stupid self reacted to it. Now the others might interrogate him about it, and he’ll either have to come clean, or he’ll have to lie, and he’s already had to lie so much, and—

A gentle hand comes to rest on his shoulder, kindly but firmly yanking Virgil from his spiraling thoughts. Connected to the hand is an arm connecting to a shoulder, down from which Patton smiles at him.

“We won’t press it.” A promise, as evidenced by Patton’s outstretched pinky. Virgil links it with his own, praying to Ceth that the fingers on his shoulder aren’t crossed.

“Do either of you have a particularly excessive amount of homework tonight?” Logan, still crouched by the patch of fur, looks up. Roman keeps his gaze turned down as he kneels beside Logan, poking at the clump. “We both have minimal work remaining, so if all of us can inspect this trail, I presume it would be best to do so now, as we’re already here.”

“I’m game. Virgil?” The hand on his shoulder gives a careful squeeze, twin to the careful expression on Patton’s careful features. Virgil wishes he could know what lives beyond those eyes, to know just how Patton actually feels about an overly emotional nobody like him. If Virgil had proof Patton hated him, he could sever all ties without a second thought. Quick release, quick clean up, and he wouldn’t have to fear hurting him like he did Than.

“Whatever.” With that not-quite-consent in hand, Logan pushes himself off the ground, dusting dirt from his pants. A twinge of mirth sparks in Virgil at the look of disgust from Roman when some of the debris gets on him. Maybe following this path is one of the last things in the world Virgil wants to do, but at least he can mock Roman on the way.

“Roman, pop quiz. What type of feather is this?” Logan snatches a finger between two fingers as it drifts down from a tree, pinching the shaft gently.

“I’m not in a birding class.”

“Never said it came from a bird. Virgil?”

Virgil sighs in an over-dramatic tone to rival Roman’s before taking the feather from Logan. He turns it over, observing the shine of the vane, the disconnect of particular barbules from their hooks. “Flight feather from an alphyn. Probably molted, since it’s too separated to trap any more air without adding unnecessary weight.” Logan seems happy enough with this answer, explaining to Roman the defining characteristics of the feather that helped Virgil come to his conclusion.

Underfoot, the clumps of fur grow more frequent as they progress along the unintentional path, smacks of dirty grey hair coughing back sunlight. They stick like pebbles between the treads of Virgil’s well-loved shoes, making them look like a dirty, wearable duck than actual footwear. Lining the makeshift dirt path they follow are all matter of flora on either side, the last signs of life finally surrendering to the approaching autumn. Rotting berries litter the ground on a bed of yellowing leaves, crunching feebly in protest as the boys trample along. Barely, just barely, the ruddy red of the roses shines up, framing Patton’s warm face in earthier tones. The crimson color is rivaled only by the tick marks marring Patton’s fingers, which Virgil lifts with his own.

“They’re healing,” Patton murmurs, watching Virgil inspect the scars. “Scraped them on some loose concrete a little while back. I tripped.” Virgil doesn’t bother with a dubious eye roll, certain Patton’s dad was fed the same lie. If Patton doesn’t want to share, the least Virgil can do is let him keep his worries close to heart. After all, the silent agreement goes both ways—don’t prod someone else for uncomfortably personal information, receive the same courtesy in return.

“Hey, guys?” Roman’s voice floats back, a dull knife splitting the quiet between the two pairs. “You, uh, you might want to pick up the pace over there. Like, now.” It’s not really Roman’s cryptic words that grab Virgil’s attention. It’s the mangled mess of tones laced through each word, sparkling excitement and overhanging fear and maybe, just maybe, the barest sliver of a call to adventure. Of course, Patton running to catch up certainly helps Virgil speed up with his internal debate of whether he should join them.

“—lucky Cethyphyirr itself doesn’t drop another shard on your head right now,” Logan is saying. His arms are crossed and his torso is turned away from Roman, but Virgil recognizes that gleam in his eye. Logan wants to explore whatever they found just as much as Roman does. A pit of dread yawns open in Virgil’s stomach. He fills it with some miniature candies from his pocket.

“Cethyphyirr has better things to do than worry about my meddlesome nature, and besides, there’s no proof that any more shards have popped off it since the Ejnathryk,” Roman retorts.

“As far as we know, but there’s no proof that it hasn’t happened, either.” Their mouths curve upward, a surefire sign of a brewing debate. Patton wedges himself in the space between, the mock-tension dissipating in the wake of his cheerful smile.

“So! Roman, what’d you find?” Roman snaps his fingers, as if he’d completely forgotten about telling Patton and Virgil to hurry up. He rushes to a smattering of trees and bushes that seems to block whatever remains of the path. As Logan looks on in defeated resignation, Roman walks straight into the greenery at full speed. Patton’s fingers fly up to cover his eyes, dilated pupils peeking out between them as he waits for cuts and bruises to appear on Roman’s skin.

The plants offer no resistance to Roman, who walks straight through the center of a tree trunk without so much as flinching. Virgil blinks, and his friend is gone. More concerned with Roman’s safety than with danger, Patton follows close behind, leaving Logan alone in the clearing with Virgil.

“Any explanation for that? Rehabilitate parents don’t really deal all that much in unexplored research.” Logan barks out a laugh that, to an uninterested onlooker, might seem real, might seem convincing, but Virgil knows better. It’s too wobbly, too uncertain. Logan is scared.

Virgil directs his gaze to the retreating sun. “If you can still see Cethyphyirr up there, it means you’re still here, still alive, and magic is too. Even in the skeptics like you.” Logan’s eyes follow the drifting clouds, watching them obscure the sun. With his features schooled into a poker face of impassivity, Logan extends a hand to Virgil.

“Into the magic, then? I can’t imagine Roman is feeling too terribly patient right now.” Virgil takes the hand, watching the ghost of worry on Logan’s face. Through the trees and bushes, the world turns green, a vibrant hue that emanates life as if nature itself were a pulsing heart. Virgil feels the thrum of it all trickling through him, a living world in which he can never belong, but whose beauty he can absorb and admire in passing.

“Magic, indeed,” Logan murmurs, releasing Virgil’s hand as they exit on the other side. Pops of green dot the edges of Virgil’s vision.

“How did you even figure that out, Roman?” A mixture of confusion and awe rests on Patton’s face.

“I was looking at the ground, and kind of walked headfirst into a tree?” Roman laughs, a vain attempt to hide his embarrassment. “It was so dark that I just kept going, and ended up over here.”

“Couldn’t see an inch in front of my face,” Logan agrees. Virgil stays silent.

“So where is ‘here,’ exactly?” Patton nods his head toward the mass of boulders, a cave of some sort. The entrance, if it can even be called that, is too tall to see beyond or through, leaving the boys with no idea how big it might actually be. Nothing so merciful as a flicker of life shines within.

“I think ‘here’ is something to explore, maybe include in our projects.” Logan glances back at the gate of trees and bushes. “Stumbling upon magic has to at least be worth extra credit.”

“That’s the spirit!” Patton exclaims, marching cheerfully into the entrance. Never one to be shown up, Roman is right on his tail, shoulders thrown back in an imitation of bravery.

“Be great if that magic could extend to me being able to snap my fingers and create fire so we could actually see something,” Roman mutters. To demonstrate his circumstances being a complete tragedy, he snaps with far more enthusiasm than necessary, earning an exhausted sigh from Virgil and a resounding echo from the cave. “Pitch black in here.”

Virgil doesn’t bother to mention how easy it would be to see once their eyes adjusted, bringing up the rear as Logan enters third. He curls his lip as a drop of water splatters from the top of the cave to his head. The walls of the almost cave, not quite solid enough to be man-made, stand cool and hard to the touch. Virgil rests a hand on the side, tracing his finger down scores of claw marks from an extremity that could easily cover his face with room to spare. The phantoms of old flames lick patches of the walls, burnt black as charred cinders fall to the dirt. The piles of ashes on the floor, while a point of interest to the Research-savvy Logan, is immediately destroyed by Roman. He walks with his arms stretched beyond a point of reason in front of himself, kicking right through the ashes without so much as a second glance.

Deeper into the cave they tread, until the natural daylight fades to a pinprick behind them. Virgil’s fingers continue following the wall slashes as the darkness refuses to yield, a guaranteed path marked to get back to the entrance. Besides the small crack dripping water on their heads from where they came in, the cave is stiflingly dry, as if a fire were being lit at the far end. The air is warm enough to make Logan tug his shirt collar away from his neck, stuffy enough to force Patton’s inhales to be louder. Roman tries to let out a cough to get air going again, but as they descend further into the inky unknown, it sounds less like a cough and more like the cave stealing his air away. Virgil’s eyes, abnormally adept at seeing without light, begin straining as they follow the cave’s path, the claw marks growing more frequent all the way. The dripping water at the entrance is such a whispering softness, it could easily be worlds away. Virgil wouldn’t know the difference. Were it not for the reassuring—albeit ominous—white noise behind him, there’s a highly probable chance he would have convinced himself the walls were sealing them in. The silence is just that deafening, but it’s tolerable enough.

It’s when his hand phases straight through the wall that it becomes a problem.

Before he can even call out a warning to his companions, Virgil feels his momentum gaining as his center of gravity shifts in protest. He clamps his mouth shut to avoid eating dirt as his shoulder scrapes against the wall, his chin following right behind. He twists his body to avoid whatever window of resistance might appear as he falls farther, faster. The odd tingling sensation returns, twin to that from when he passed through the tree. His arm tingles quicker, so quick that it vibrates, getting warmer and warmer until he isn’t sure whether his fingers aren’t on fire, and still he presses through the wall. As it swallows his eyes, he pushes off the foot that’s still firmly planted in the cave. If there were any time to get stuck in a wall, this would not be it.

The colors bounce by faster this time, shifting from dark brown to a murky mud to burning dirt and fiery green, until his fingertips escape to kiss cool air. The colors pass slower as Virgil squeezes himself through the last of the wall, watching the fires of color fade into the same green clearing as before. Almost the same, anyway. Where earlier there were rolling berries and dying leaves, everything here is still very much alive. Dandelions stretch to the sun, drinking in its rays as the grass beneath stays wet with morning dew, which definitely should have already dried out by this late in the afternoon. Virgil feels a bead of sweat teasing the nape of his neck, and only slightly regrets wearing a hoodie. At least his arms are covered. The other flowers, proteas and rhododendrons and tansies, each and every one seems to turn toward Virgil, living entities interrupted by an unwelcome intruder.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Virgil mutters. A blade of grass cleaves itself down the middle, snapping in twain as the stem splits at its root. Clouds roll in faster than they have any right to as the apparent illusion shatters. Virgil claps his hands over his ears as the rest of the grass peels, the softest of shrieks emitted from them like so many nails on a chalkboard. He clenches his teeth together, struggling in vain to combat the awful scratching and tingling that courses over his skin. Vibrant greens give way to burning reds and scorching yellows, as some flowers curl in on themselves, others wither away, and still more crane their neck-like stalks to leer at Virgil. The wood of the trees moans as the bark drips away, melting down the side and spiraling into the dirt. He watches, nails digging into his scalp, as the offshoots of burning wood blaze a trail of light underground, the path of the roots aglow in the roasting grass. The fire crawls closer, licking at Virgil’s shoes. The acrid smell of burning plastic assaults his nose as he waits for his body to engulf itself in red and orange. He shuts his eyes, feeling the warmth spread, bracing himself for when it becomes unbearable.

It doesn’t.

The heat doesn’t get worse.

He lets his hands fall cautiously from his ears, blinking up at the clouds. Their rushing speed slows to a crawling hover, freezing for just a moment, two, three, until he blinks. The sound of a snap somewhere rings off the groaning trees, and the clouds fly backwards. Virgil watches in stunned awe as the wood smacks back onto the trees, as the flowers stop wilting, as they stop staring at him, as the grass zips itself back together, as the flames redede. It isn’t until the far-off whistle of birds and wind returns that VIrgil realizes how silent the clearing had been, how loud that snap had seemed, how deafening.

“That doesn’t—you should’ve—it didn’t touch you,” a voice splutters, audibly baffled. When the ache of his clenched fingers loosens, Virgil lifts his eyes from the unharmed dirt to see Than. Both boys grimace at each other.

The haughty squint in Than’s eye is far overpowered by the scorch marks crawling from his hairline down into his shirt. The skin seems to ripple, a sheet of bubble wrap that someone tried to pop with a sledgehammer. Than holds Virgil’s gaze for only a moment, a desperate attempt at maintaining his composure. He fails spectacularly.

Virgil forces his eyes away from the raw, ragged face, Than’s protruding cheekbones only enhanced by how much of his skin has worn away. With visible discomfort, Than manages a half smile. A wince tangles itself into Virgil’s face. “So how do I look?”

“Terrible as ever. What happened to you?”

Virgil knows it’s in his head, but by the placebo effect or paranoia or an act of Ceth itself, he swears he can hear the lining of Than’s mouth tearing as he speaks, can see shreds flaking off. “Followed you guys, beat Roman to getting through the tree first, fell through the cave wall. Bam, fire everywhere.”

“That’s not how magic works.” The corner of Virgil’s mouth quirks up as he watches Than fumble for a more believable excuse. This, from the guy who used to be his closest friend. If he weren’t so stubborn about keeping the past in the past, Virgil might admit to counting out the same nine seconds it always takes for Than to come up with something. But the past stays where it belongs, and Virgil doesn’t count the seconds, and he definitely doesn’t feel a familiar bubble of warmth rising in his chest, and it’s absolutely in no way fondness for the guy. Not at all.

“So that’s not what actually happened.” Than’s voice takes on a more confident air, too immediate of a switch to be believable. Virgil’s known him too long for that. “There was this naga—”

“Nope, those aren’t impervious to fire. Try again.” Two lies down, probably one or two more to go before Than can get to the truth.

“A pegasus came down and—”

“Not native to this region. Wrong climate.” Virgil puts on his best impersonation of Logan. “I’m not an idiot, Than, and I don’t know why you insist upon taking me for one. I already know what it was, based on everything you’re refusing to tell me.”

Than exhales. If Virgil weren’t so proud of himself for the admittedly mediocre bluff, maybe he would have noticed how bits of Than’s face float away on the breeze. “A zburator. I saw a zburator, and I was running away, hit the cave wall—guess it lives in there or something—and it was already smoking at the snout when I—”

Virgil doesn’t hear anything after ‘zburator.’ He had a hunch, an inkling, but he didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to trust Than, not here, not when the others couldn’t help him, not when he could mess up and Than would see and Than would spread it because Than knows and if he’s being honest now then he might decide to tell the truth later and put his friends in danger because Virgil was too busy wishing for what used to be with Than instead of getting away from him because he was poison, Than was poison Virgil is poison Than is poison Virgil was poison Than Virgil poison Than poison Virgil poison poison poison—

He coughs. A loud cough. A harsh cough. A hack. Virgil blinks. He’s on the ground. He wasn’t on the ground before. Was he? Than is gone. Where is Than? Virgil isn’t gone. Is Virgil gone? He doesn’t know. Should he know? He should probably know. He coughs again. Something hits his back. He coughs. Where is Than? His fingers wiggle. Did he do that? He doesn’t know. His chest hurts. His head hurts. He coughs. The grass is wet. The grass is on the ground. He wasn’t on the ground before. Where is Than? His fingers are cold. A breeze hits his face. He doesn’t feel it. It’s too cold. Where is Than? He coughs. Than is gone. Where is Virgil?

Zburator.

Virgil shoots to his feet, uncertain as to whether he was even sitting in the first place. Than recoils, his hand hovering over Virgil as he straightens from his crouch. Of course it was a zburator, that explains the scorch marks, the fur, the magic gates, how did he not recognize it sooner, he was being so foolish—

“I need to help them,” Virgil realizes. He ignores the look of confusion on Than’s face, grabbing his wrist and running headfirst for the solid cave wall. Before either of them can acknowledge the trampled chrysanthemums under their feet, they’re crashing through the wall of the cave, greens and yellows and reds whipping by at breakneck speeds. Virgil might admire it, were it not for the complete and utter panic flooding every last one of his senses.

“Dude, we’re gonna hit the—” Than’s words echo dull in the midst of the passage back into the cave. Virgil’s shoulder slams through behind it. “—wall.” With a tingling arm and rattling teeth, Virgil brushes dirt from his sleeve, ignoring how hard Than squints to see in the dark. Moreover, he ignores the look of pain on Than’s face from aggravating his still-pink skin. Still sizzling.

“Roman?” Pure instinct on Virgil’s part to call Roman first, knowing him to be the loudest person in the cave, if not the school. Virgil’s shout bounces heavy off the walls, creating a chorus of one for itself with a resounding lack of harmony. He calls out again. “Patton? Logan?” The only answer is that same dripping water at the entrance, slower now, too loud for Virgil to hear his own echo, too loud to even hope for a response. Than’s voice, gravelly and strained, joins in the cry.

“I’m here, too! Better come find me before I do something stupid! I have Virgil here, you’d better hurry up!” Than sounds more taunting than Virgil might prefer, but it’s not of terrible importance. What is important is the trembling hand on Virgil’s shoulder—Than trying to discreetly tug him out of the cave.

“What are you doing? We have to make sure they’re okay, we can’t just leave!” Virgil despises the tint of panic making his protests quiver.

“Or they’re already outside, and we’re tiptoeing barefoot on a knife’s edge.” Than continues pulling on Virgil, and it takes only a moment for Virgil to cooperate. Only a moment for a blast of heat to smack the boys in the face. Only a moment for a dot of yellow to grow into a blooming whirlpool of oranges and reds, racing toward them. Only a moment for them to flatten themselves on the grass just outside the cave, as pillars of fire singe the tips of their hair.

“Virgil? Than?” Logan and Roman peer out from behind a tree, concern on their faces.

“We thought you got out and went for help! Where’s Patton?” At the terror in Roman’s voice, all color drains from Virgil’s face. Patton is still in the cave. Virgil has to go back into the cave. In the same moment that fear seizes him, so too does a pair of hands, then another. Logan and Roman yank Virgil toward their tree shield, literally out of the line of fire before he can run back in.

“Wait, where’s he—” Logan trails off and releases Virgil, who turns to see Than’s lanky form disappearing into the inferno.

“Than, wait!” Virgil throws out a hand, desperate to follow, but no, he can’t, the combined strength of Logan and Roman is too much. Virgil can’t help Than. Virgil can’t help Patton. Virgil has to wait and hope.

The spurts of fire trickle to a stop, having hardly harmed the surrounding nature, not even skimming the tree they hide behind. Only the dirt by the entrance appears effected, smoking and crackling. The clearing falls silent. They wait.

And wait.

And wait.

In silence.

Waiting.

Watching.

Waiting.

When smoke starts pouring from the mouth of the cave, Virgil shifts his feet to a wider stance. Accompanying the smoke is the ragged coughing of burning lungs, followed by Than, who trudges out with Patton draped over his shoulders. With the added weight, Than’s limp—as described by Logan—is even more prominent, and the mess on his face looks even worse. The pair collapses at Virgil’s feet, choking on the surge of fresh air.

Virgil forces himself not to help Patton, to be the bigger person and check on Than. Logan and Roman can handle Patton, even if it hurts to not be there with them. Blisters pop on Than’s face as Virgil moves to his side, running a light hand over the unmarred areas. “You impulsive little idiot, what were you thinking?” Virgil mutters, more to himself than to Than.

“Sorry about—” Than interrupts himself with a wheezing cough, quickly followed by a wince at his own overstretched face.

“Shut up, let’s just get out of here.” Virgil offers Than a hand, which the latter actually takes, much to Virgil’s surprise. He almost wonders why Roman makes such a miffed sound in response. With a little two fingered half-salute, Than disappears through the gate of trees and bushes. Virgil doesn’t comment on the action Than adopted from him, doesn’t even run after the guy. He keeps a cool walking pace as Logan and Patton give chase, knowing Than will already be long gone. Roman lags behind with him, making some asinine comment about Than appearing out of nowhere, much like the fire itself. His mouth spills all of his thoughts in a hushed whisper, of the cave, the flames, the unsinged trees and leaves, the overwhelming darkness as they pass through them. Virgil squints at the brightness in between.

“So how about his face? What did he say to you, did he do anything? What was he even doing here?” Who might be asking these questions once they come out on the other side is anybody’s guess. The overlapping voices and questions mingle in Virgil’s mind, but he doesn’t hear any of it as they head for the familiar path home. He only watches the patches of fur blow away in the breeze. He almost bothers to wonder how he didn’t notice the telltale scorch marks on their tips. He shivers when a strand brushes over his face, languidly drifting into the sky against the vanishing sun. And he waits.


	6. Chapter 6

Patton brushes a finger over his face, which feels like millions of tiny pins stabbing constellations into his skin. His hands are freezing, certainly ice cold at best, but Logan reassures him again and again that they’re perfectly fine. His chest hurts.

“You really should be coughing, if you want to get that smoke out of your system,” Logan says. He pulls the glasses from Patton’s face, a hint of pain darting through his eyes when he touches the hot metal hinges. The expression is gone as soon as it arrived. “Go on then, cough. It’ll hurt, but you inhaled some pretty bad stuff in that cave. Start coughing.”

Before Patton can oblige, something whacks him on the back. Hard. All of the air in his lungs rushes out, mingling flecks of grey and black with the dirt underfoot. Curling his lip at the disgusting substance on his tongue, Patton turns to face Roman.

“Overly enthusiastic, I guess?” Roman offers a sheepish shrug and smile, shimmying his shoulders. “Still worked, didn’t it?”

“Be careful, loser. Fragile lungs being harmed might wind up with you unconscious in a ditch.” Virgil elbows Roman’s side, clearly amused as he jerks away. “Someone’s ticklish.”

“Am not!” Patton waves a hand to cut them off before they can launch into the whole ‘am not, are too’ debate.

“It’s fine. Are you all heading—” Patton interrupts himself to cough again, trying not to gag at the smatter of grey in the crook of his elbow. It takes on an otherworldly glow against the new skin, fresh and pink. At least his face doesn’t hurt as much. That’s right, he was talking, he had a question, that’s why everyone is staring at him. “Are you all heading home, then?”

Roman’s eyes drift to the stars overhead, the sun vanishing below the horizon. “Yeah. I think I asked Pib for help with getting ahead on a lesson, and I don’t really want to stand them up.” Logan and Virgil merely shrug, their night probably free for a study party or something.

Patton’s hands tremble as he waves an arm in the general direction of their houses. “Home, then.”

“Home, then,” the other three echo. Like a hive mind, the quartet sets off in the direction Patton pointed, their mouths silent and their minds screaming.

“So, anyone get any ideas for a TryMyts project in there?” Patton asks, uncomfortable with the quiet. “If we’re putting ourselves in danger, we should at least have a reason behind it.”

“Patton, you literally just saw someone with their face burnt off. Why are you so eager to go running back?” Virgil squints at Patton, eyebags of exhaustion wrinkling. “What are you playing at?”

“I just thought we might—”

“We might nothing. Out of the question. I’m not letting you put yourself in harm’s way again, and so help me Roman, if you take Patton back there, I am going to have Logan spill your darkest secrets to the entire school. We. Do not. Go back. Understood?” Virgil storms ahead, leaving Roman and Logan tripping over themselves to catch up. Patton’s extremities have stopped hurting, he could run after them, he should run after them, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lags further behind, counting the cracks in the pavement and fighting back tears until Logan appears beside him.

“He’s only looking out for you, you know,” Logan says. In an uncharacteristic show of affection, he rests a reassuring hand on Patton’s shoulder. “You can’t understand how much it would tear him up inside if you got hurt again and he could’ve stopped it.”

Patton glances up to see Virgil hunched in a deeper slouch than normal, Roman waving his arms emphatically beside him. Patton should be up there with them, not moping back here. “I know.”

“Have you ever heard of an escape clause, Patton?” Logan’s hand drops to fidget with the hem of his shirt. “Or a loophole, in layman’s terms.”

“Sure I have, why?” Patton looks at Logan, who stares off at something in the distance.

“Virgil threatened Roman, under penalty of his secrets being exposed, that he couldn’t help you go back.” Adjusting his glasses, which slip down his nose again anyway, Logan’s eyes drift to Patton. “I was issued no such warning, and I’ve nothing to hide if Virgil assigns me the same consequence. In the name of research, of course. I’m nothing if not intent on expanding my knowledge.”

“You really want to help me go back?” Patton’s voice drops to a hushed whisper, lest Virgil overhear and try to stop him. “Why would you do that? You don’t seem like the type to want to return for the sake of helping a zburator.”

“For one, we’re friends, and I’ve been told that that’s a point and stipulation of having friends, is that you help them get into trouble where they shouldn’t. Barring that, while I disagree with your personal reasons for returning, I cannot deny the significance that magic could give, the effects that might spread as a result of our having found it. For another, I know you’ll just go back on your own, anyway, don’t try to pretend that you wouldn’t, and I’d rather you had someone standing nearby to help, should things go awry. That’s not to mention the research potential that that cave bears. Stop looking at me like that, I’m purely interested in the objective and scientific sides of things.”

“Sure you are,” Patton singsongs, bumping shoulders with Logan. “Keep pretending you don’t really care about anyone or anything, but I know you, Logan. You care just as much as I do.”

“Preposterous.” Logan’s mouth clamps shut as he speeds up to join Roman and Virgil, dragging Patton along by his unharmed wrist.

Before Virgil can even try to form a coherent sentence, Patton holds up a hand, bracing for the apology. “It’s fine.”

“I wasn’t going to apologize for what I said.” At a meaningful clearing of the throat from Roman, Virgil crosses his arms. “I will admit to being sorry if it upset you, but I’m not going to apologize for keeping your best interests at heart.” A twinge of irritation settles on Virgil’s face, but whether it’s at Roman’s prompting or at Patton interrupting him is anybody’s guess.

“And I wouldn’t ask you to. Just know that I won’t apologize for trying to do what I think is right, even if you can’t seem to get that through your head.” Patton slaps a hand over his mouth. “That came out wrong.”

One word from Virgil, one single sound, makes Patton wish he could burn up the last five minutes and have them blow away on the breeze. “Oh.” An oddly placid smile settles on his face. And before anyone can stop him, Virgil is running, sprinting, flying across the ground and out of sight, into a tangle of trees.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Patton manages, shaking his head.

It’s the disappointment in Roman’s voice. “We know, Patton.”

It’s the resignation in Logan’s. “We’ll handle it, Patton.”

It’s how alone he feels as he comes to a stop, watching Roman and Logan continue without him. It’s seeing only nature, and nothing else. That’s what really burns, more than his face, more than his lungs, more than the absent sun, is knowing he messed up, and not being able to do a single solitary thing about it.

“I, uh, I’ll just go this way,” Patton mumbles, more to himself than to his friends. He points in a different direction, kicking up pebbles as he goes. The only break in the trees that he can see looks so inviting, so familiar, that he can’t help but pursue it. Thin green needles poke and prod at the fabric of his shirt, tearing from their branches to cling to his skin as he moves past. In the end, they merely leave him looking like a roughly handled porcupine. As the last rays of the sun fight to exist in the dying light, he glances back the way he came. The break in the trees is nigh impossible to see. For a moment, he almost considers retreating. His dad might start to worry. Or he’ll forget you ever existed in the first place and take to the streets, complaining of a stranger having taken up residence in his house. That’s all you are to him, anyway. Spurred on by this erratic train of thought, Patton squints through the dark to see no clearings, no openings, nothing. Only a wall of green, eerily lit by flickering stars overhead. Recalling the cave earlier, Patton shrugs. Worth a shot.

Not letting himself stop to reconsider, he walks straight into the bushes, all too aware of how the leaves try to tear at his singed skin. It’s definitely not the kind of magic he encountered earlier, but rather an uncomfortable stroll through regular nature. Either way, Patton finds himself spat out on the other side into a clearing that almost seems to glimmer. Before he has time to take in the towering trees that were invisible from behind, the startling clarity of the constellations, the incredible imperfections of the invading weeds, something knocks Patton to the ground.

“What’s—” His voice abruptly cuts off, muffled by an enormous wing, awash in a rainbow of colors. A creature easily twice his size envelopes him, its head poking out of the makeshift rainbow shield. Patton’s mind flashes back to countless study sessions with his friends, the reviews of animals just such as this. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, it’s certainly some sort of dragon, and by the lack of a prominent head feather, it’s a female. He doesn’t even consider being scared, too enamoured with the scene beyond the wings. If he cranes his neck just right, pressing his cheek to the dirt, he can see what the dragon sees.

A wolf bounds into the clearing, foaming at the mouth and snarling. It whips its head from side to side before locking eyes with Patton. His heart stops. I’m a friend, I won’t hurt you, please don’t hurt me, I’m a friend. He chants the silent mantra to himself, feeling his body tremble as the wolf advances. Flecks of red pepper the cloud of white as it spits, landing a fair amount on the protective wing. The rest hits the dirt, sending the grass sputtering and sparking. Definitely not a normal wolf. Just the sight of the dirt charring under its paws is enough to make Patton’s face ache.

Patton’s fingers clench fistfuls of dirt as something whips in front of his view. The dragon’s tail, tipped in spikes, flicks warily at the wolf. He doesn’t have time to be confused, to react, to breathe, before the wolf pounces. The tail flies in the wolf’s path, going rigid before shining a blinding rainbow condensed into white oblivion. Just like that, the dragon leaps into the air, tail dangling like a limp target over Patton’s head. The wolf huffs, shakes its head, advances again. A stray dot of foam from its mouth burns a hole in the rubber of Patton’s shoe.

He scuttles back on all fours, his back pressing against a tree that stops his retreat. Nowhere to go. No way can he even hope to outrun this thing. Patton inhales sharply as the wolf lets out something just a little too unnatural to be a bark. Again and again it pummels Patton’s ears, all the while prowling closer. Accepting his fate, Patton leaves his eyes wide open, determined to meet his end in a manner of bravery to rival Roman’s.

The call of the wolf sounds like the whimper of a puppy compared to what he hears next. It’s not a bark, not a howl, not a screech or caw or shriek or yell or anything Patton has the vocabulary to describe. His ears ring as the wolf hesitates, cowering in place. The perfect position for something even more terrifying to crash into its side.

“Zburator,” Patton breathes. The new creature’s torn ears perk up at the sound, swiveling toward the source as its glistening eyes focus on the wolf. Its scales ripple and gleam as it slashes a claw at the wolf, still making that awful sound. A smoking skidmark belatedly reveals itself from where the zburator collided with the wolf.

The burning foam bounces harmlessly off the zburator’s scales. It almost seems to manage a not-quite-laugh at the mere prospect of a measly wolf standing a chance against it. With a growl, the wolf leers at Patton, obviously still intent on getting at the human. Sliding its matted stomach over the dirt, the wolf creeps around the zburator, which flings itself back to shield Patton.

Up so close, Patton can see the fur scorched black around its mouth, and finally remembers why he’s supposed to be scared. Zburators breathe fire. The unholy cross between a wolf and a dragon makes that infernal sound again, one last chance for the wolf to turn tail and run. It doesn’t.

With something akin to resignation, the zburator almost sighs, its shoulder blades tensing. Patton watches in awe at wings that expand to a solid twelve foot span, there spray of camouflage highlighted by the twinkling stars. Its eyes gleam red as the barbs lining the wing spines spread further, completely shielding Patton. It howls, a painful, bellowing scream in the dead of night, finally sending the wolf into the dark with a pitiful whimper. The zburator spits out a little ball of fire after it, gingerly folding its wings back up. Just before they completely snap shut, Patton catches a glimpse of a spiderweb tear on the left wing. I could probably fix that.

Without giving him time to react, the zburator vanishes into the night as quickly as it came, the only sign of the altercation lying in the scorched ring of grass. A rainbow feather floats down to land in the center, prompting Patton to look up. The same dragon waits overhead, its gently flapping wings a child’s toy compared to those of the zburator. She flies in lazy circles, mere yards behind Patton as he numbly finds his way through the trees and back to the path. At the way home, the dragon tails him. She darts between clouds at the least sign of another animal or, Ceth forbid, another human. When it’s clear enough for comfort, she rains a little stream of feathers to mark where Patton had been, like a trail of breadcrumbs.

As Patton nears home, the same creatures draw out to greet him, and moreover to greet his snacks. After far too many years, and far too many close calls, they’ve finally learned to back off as he nears his house, dropping off to dead silence at his door. This excludes the dragon, which allows one last feather to drift down before ascending, its rainbow coat lost in the clouds. Patton plucks the feather from his head, turning it over in his hand before tucking it in his pocket. Don’t need Dad asking about that.

“Do I want to know where you’ve been all night?” His dad wastes no time with idle pleasantries, hounding Patton the moment he turns the door handle. “You haven’t checked in, I don’t know if you’ve eaten, and here I am looking like an idiot as I knock on every—” Patton maintains a neutral expression as his dad pauses. “You—your face, good Ceth, Patton, what did you do?” Those hands, normally a mess of steady muscles, now tremble as he reaches out to brush aside a strand of hair. “Are you okay? What happened? Ceth, kiddo, let’s just get you inside and fixed up, come on.” In a startingly doting manner, his dad leads him to one of the chairs ringing the kitchen counter. “Let me get a light on that, see how bad it is. Does it hurt? Did you get it anywhere else?” Patton places his arms on the counter, twisting them around to show off the pink sheen. “Here, let me just get a cold towel, it’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, everything will be absolutely fine, I promise. Where are those books your mother used to keep?”

Patton leans back in the chair, content to watch his dad scuttle about like a frantic bumblebee. Mutterings of types of creatures and their burn patterns float to his ears, but it’s not until Patton hears a certain word that he jolts up.

“Zburator.” How did he not notice sooner? How did it take hearing the word from someone else’s mouth for it to register? Literally one of the least researched creatures in existence, he escapes from one’s cave with the help of someone he least expected to be helpful, gets defended by another creature of the same species, and didn’t once stop to wonder about it? He didn’t even think to consider where the line blurred between a coincidence and an inevitability.

His dad scurries back over, three oversized textbooks and two dictionaries weighing him down. With a thud, the stack slams down on Patton’s left, a sixth book sprawling open on his right. “Okay, zburator burns, coolants, ingredients, index, here we go.” Patton looks on, unused to his dad being so frantic about something that’s basically rehabilitation. “This is the mixture in this jar here, soak these towels and cover the burns up, swap them out for new towels every three hours, stir the jar each time you switch.” As his dad speaks, he sets the towels in place on the red spots, all of their excess heat immediately leaching out. Patton had grown so used to the ever-present warmth that its absence almost feels like sucking on a mint before breathing in winter air.

“All right, kiddo, you head on up to your room, I’ll throw together a sandwich for don’t you dare touch that bag, your arms need rest.” Patton freezes, his fingers hovering inches above his school bag. He lifts them up—caught red handed, as it were, and the thought almost makes him laugh.

“You don’t need to make anything, I ate while I was out.” He definitely ate a faceful of dirt at some point, so it’s not technically a lie. “I had TryMyts stuff to do.” This is also not technically a lie. “Sorry to make you worry, though.” This is nowhere close to being a lie. In fact, the remorse he feels for the obvious panic he gave his dad almost outweighs the pain of his blistering skin. Almost.

Hidden away in his room, to which the door still hasn’t been replaced, Patton empties his pockets and releases the creatures from their closet cove. By the look of its flying gait, the amphiptere is recovering nicely, so with a discreet shoulder to his doorway, Patton carries it to the open window. It pauses just past the glass, looks back, and gives a proud two wing flaps. They buffet the air marvelously. Something akin to a bittersweet joy flutters in Patton’s chest as he watches it go, waving all the while, until he can no longer make out its red tail in the dark. Patton taps his pinky finger on the bricks outside once, twice, thrice—his standard farewell to his successfully rehabilitated creatures—and closes the window. Somewhere in the darkness, he spots a rabbit limping along, a careful wrap around its leg. He smiles, feeling just a little silly for being so worried about it at school.

The gently crescendoing whine from his closet draws his attention back to where a concerningly large jorogumo pries open the door with spider-like limbs. The face markings on its back are disconcerting at such a size, to say the least.

“You get back in there!” Patton hisses softly, darting in behind it. He leans against the door as he tugs it shut, watching the jorogumo try to maneuver its mutilated leg. “I thought I told you not to pick at the setting.” If the jorogumo could have shrugged, it would have. Patton tuts, rewrapping the trembling appendage and sending his thanks to Ceth that the creature doesn’t struggle. From experience, struggling usually leads to some form of scratch or bite in a place where scratches and bites are not meant to be. This is all Patton will share on that particular story.

As the jorogumo latches onto the wall, inadvertently creating a parade of other creatures, Patton digs in his pockets once more, ignoring how rough the fabric is on his arms. He draws out the rainbow feather, admiring how the colors fade and reappear in the artificial light.

Long after the sounds of his dad puttering about have ceased, Patton remains, twirling the feather around. Most of the creatures have either retreated to their charmed cove or draped themselves over Patton’s limbs, as if he were a mattress. He runs an idle free hand down the puffed tail of the shedu. It almost seems to purr, despite what looks to be an incredibly uncomfortable position—its body and head shrunk down in the cove, its tail dangling out at a normal size for optimal petting.

It’s when he hears rustling outside that he freezes, his hand hovering mere millimeters from the shedu’s tail. He places the feather atop a shelf, shooing the remaining creatures into their tanks and crates before covering up the evidence with weapons and shelves. The feather, too, gets a disguise, in the form of a quiver of arrows. Save for the shock of color, it blends right in.

The rustling comes again, more insistent, closer. Patton hesitates, torn between investigating and trying to block his gaping doorframe as he peers out of the closet. Encouraged by the dark silence in the rest of the house, he goes for the former, picking up a loose chunk from the wood flooring as he goes. Instinct, mostly, is what puts the idea of attacking an ambusher in his mind, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s proud of how carelessly he grabbed the makeshift weapon.

Patton remembers belatedly the towels decorating his skin, and peels them off with a wince. The sudden exposure to air feels like ice against the red marks, which have thankfully paled. On his arms, at least. As for the color of his face, it’s anybody’s guess.

Ever louder, the rustling returns, stopping only when Patton approaches the window. Even the stars above seem to twinkle a little dimmer, their brilliance drowned out by the night sky and lingering clouds. The absence of the rustling looms over Patton, a chaotic calm that just feels wrong, until he rests a cautious hand on the glass of the window. Cool to the touch, the heat from his hand seeps into it, his fingers going stiff. Patton has almost convinced himself that he’s just being silly, that it’s just a freybug out on an evening prowl, when he hears a thud inches from his face. His heart leaps into his throat as he bites his tongue to keep from shouting. The thud echoes itself, tap, tap, tapping until Patton forces himself to peer out the window once more.

Still an empty night, still a sky glowing dull, still the same old everything he’s always known. Patton swallows, trying to force his organs back to their proper place. With a shudder, he presses his forehead to the glass, trying to make out a shape, a silhouette, something. Nothing.

A fingernail taps on the window.


	7. Chapter 7

“You look like you’ve just seen some unspeakable eldritch horror,” Logan comments, watching the color slowly return to Patton’s face. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, we should get going before my parents notice I’m gone.”

“I—uh, yeah, we should—gone? Where are we going? What are you even doing here?” Patton fumbles for words, much to Logan’s chagrin. What should be a simple task to satiate curiosity, now delayed by extraneous emotions. Things would be so much easier if people would just learn to listen to him.

“I said I would assist you in further investigating the cave, did I not?” Pinching his nose, Logan sighs. “We could save a considerable amount of time if you allow me to elaborate as we walk.”

This is how the moon shines down on them: two boys, one a good head taller than the other, sticking to side streets and ducking under the lower hanging trees. By the time they reach the beginnings of a forest, the tall one’s purple hair is shot through with countless branches and brambles.

“I’d rather get this over with sooner than later,” Logan is saying, “and it’s better to have recovery time if we need it. Should anything happen to the creatures or the clearing, us investigating earlier allows a better chance for us to still gain something, regardless of how useful it might be to our projects.” Maybe it’s Logan’s determination to be done with all this cave business that prevents him from noticing the pine needles sticking out of Patton’s shirt. Patton brushes them off with a feigned air of nonchalance, a story lingering in his eyes at which Logan has no desire to pry. He instead focuses on the carpet of leaves dotting the forest floor, on the shredded wood chips kicked up behind him. He almost pauses to figure out the time, but there’s no need, really. If they assume they’re late and quicken their paces accordingly, they’ll be early.

“That still doesn’t tell me why you were sneaking around all creepy outside my house, or how you got up to the second floor.” Patton’s eyes dart in every direction, watching a gnat flit about his face. It burrows a home in his brown hair, nestling in place until a scorched hand brushes it away. Logan pretends not to notice Patton’s wince as he peels pieces of hair from his pink skin.

“It seemed a humorous venture at the time, and I simply scaled the wall. It’s not a frictionless surface, you know.”

“Normal people don’t ‘simply scale the wall,’ Logan. That’s not a thing they do.”

“Fascinating. I wonder whether the activity will see an increase in popularity? You must try it sometime, I’m certain you’d love it.” Logan points to a hairline break in the line of trees, apparently finished peddling his newfangled exercise. “Does this one look about right?”

Patton runs a hand over his goosebumps, clearly wishing he could tell his past self to bring a sweater—something for which Logan had long since been prepared. Logan produces a black and baby blue scarf from one of his pockets, allowing himself a small grin when Patton wraps it around his neck and buries his nose in it. “I hope so.”

Something in Patton’s voice makes Logan curious, wondering at the sudden loss of enthusiasm to return to the cave. Not enough to pursue the question, of course. Instead, he walks up to the fissure in nature and pokes his hand through. Nothing. No disappearing, no open space, nothing like they’d seen earlier. Sticking his head in, Logan peers around. Granted, he’s throwing caution to the wind at this point, but it’s in the name of scientific discovery. This time is different than before, with no clearing on the other side, no total darkness, and certainly no cave to greet him. Only regular old nature with its regular old greens and browns. Patton wedges himself beside Logan, a nervous laugh bubbling in his chest.

“Okay well there’s nothing here oh no that’s too bad let’s just get going!” Patton’s laugh rises, filling the air as he paces behind Logan. “Nothing to see here, come on!”

“You’re acting strangely,” Logan remarks, still studying what could hardly be called an opening. He tuts to himself, well aware of Patton’s impatience as he takes copious mental notes. Barring the leaves he’d moved, the trees could be identical to just about any other oversized cylinder of wood, which perfectly embodies why Logan has a such a vendetta against magic. Unpredictable and nigh impossible to study, magic is less of an artifact and more of a living entity that humanity could never hope to understand, let alone control. Naturally, this annoys Logan to no end. “Maybe if we’d been a little faster in getting here, or quieter as we got closer, or we’re in the wrong place entirely and I’m losing it.”

“Definitely not that last one, but can we just leave anyway?” Patton eyes the brightening horizon, which is marred only by thin clouds that promise a growing storm. “It’s been a long night.”

“Has it, now?” A new voice joins in the fray, making Logan’s shoulders stiffen. More out of habit than anything, he grabs Patton’s wrist to prevent whatever unintentional fight might arise. “Just how long of a night, exactly, have you had? I can’t imagine it’s been too difficult, but it’s not like I was there or anything.”

“Hey, Than,” Patton sighs.

Than nods, his eyes lingering on Patton’s seared face. “Look at us, fire twins born of the same burning ashes. Couple of cards.”

“What do you want, Than?” Logan bites back the knee jerk reaction to tell off Patton, to implore him not to encourage Than. Instead, he squeezes his wrist tighter, stopping just before it hurts enough for Patton to cry out. “We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”

“Oh, you’re busy?” Than presses his lips together and looks at Logan, who curls his shoulders in. Seeming to understand his discomfort, Than shifts his focus back to Patton. “Maybe I could fetch Virgil, have him help you finish up faster?”

“How did you even know about that?” Patton’s hands tighten into fists, clench and relax, clench and relax. “Our problems are none of your business.”

“I didn’t know about it until you told me just now, but thanks for clearing it up. I wasn’t quite sure.” Than studies his fingernails and lets out a puff of air to blow the stray blond strands from his face. “Anyway, I should get going, don’t want to be late for school. Have fun playing in the dirt.” Than waves his fingers in a ‘toodle-loo’ motion, nearly out of sight before he turns back. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Virgil.” His last word of farewell dies on the wind. “Probably.”

Logan does his best to appear wholly unaffected by the confrontation, content to continue scrutinizing the greens. If he can’t find the magic, he won’t be able to study it, so he won’t be able to use it in his TryMyts, so them coming out here would have been a waste, so that’s time he didn’t spend being productive, so—

“Or you can ignore me, that’s also a valid option. Take your time, but I don’t think I can personally handle the idea.” Snapping back into himself, Logan registers Patton moving to follow Than.

“Wait, wait, where are you going?”

“To class. I said that several times, but you seemed pretty absorbed in your observations and everything.” Patton shrugs. “I need to stop home for my bag, anyway, and I don’t want to cut it too close on time.”

“That, um, yes, that would make sense. My apologies. To your house, then?” Logan brushes the dirt from his knees as he stands, grimacing at the smear of mud that only smudges further. “I don’t suppose you have any thrilling stories with which to regale me on the way, do you?” A silence falls over the pair, which Logan takes as answer enough.

The short journey home is interspersed with the early risers of their school, who head toward the building in the distance as one cohesive unit. By the bags tugging on their eyes and those weighing down their backs, one might almost assume they were a hive mind. Probably not too far from the truth, in Logan’s professional opinion. Sure, he loves research more than pretty much anything else in life, but even he knows that everyone has a limit to how much they’re willing to learn. Frankly, everyone has a limit to how much they’re willing to put up with being forced to learn, which is often reached far sooner than the limit they desire of their own free will.

Just because he hasn’t found either limit yet, that doesn’t make him better than everyone else. Logan is keenly aware of this fact, and takes care to remind himself of it often. Oversized egos do not a good Research candidate make. That’s not to say that Research doesn’t have its fair share of egomaniacs—quite the contrary, in fact. Plenty of people set their sights on Research solely to appear smarter, only to end up in a completely unrelated field of study than that upon which they based their TryMyts. An optimist might see that as the ideal for a Research candidate, putting their chips in every jar they can find, in order to learn about as many things as possible, some of which they didn’t even sign up for in the first place. Logan thinks the people who choose one jar that isn’t theirs and mock people who try to join in on that jar are all snobbish airheads, but no one asked him.

Well, no, that’s not strictly true. Patton definitely just asked him something, and Logan definitely wasn’t listening.

“Sorry, lost in thought. Come again?”

“I could tell.” Patton gestures to Logan’s arm, which is covered in ink doodles. Even with the long sleeve pushed up, more scribbles manage to lurk under the fabric. Logan glances at his other hand, which somehow got hold of a pen and went to town on his skin. With a small laugh, he recaps the pen and rolls the sleeve back down. “You’ve been doing that for years, pretty much invariably when your mind is idle and wandering. I know your tics by now, no worries. I just asked if you wanted me to wait for you to get your bag, or if we should split up.”

“You needn’t wait here, I’ll only be but a moment.” Logan blinks, uncertain as to when, exactly, he’d found himself in front of his house. He’s usually much more on the ball than this—at least, that’s what he’d like to have disinterested onlookers believe. “I’ll see if I can’t rope Roman into leaving early, as well.”

“Meet you at my house, then.” Patton waves, continuing on as Logan ducks inside. By some miracle, his mother is still asleep. Ren, on the other hand—

“Where have you been?” they hiss. As evidenced by their fingernails, bitten well into the nail bed by now, they are none too happy with Logan. “I was worried sick that you’d gone gallivanting off to Ceth knows where, you could’ve gotten seriously hurt, and I would’ve had no way of knowing!”

“Sorry, I—”

“No apologizing. If you were really sorry, you wouldn’t have done it in the first place. Just get your bag and go, before your mother wakes up. She doesn’t need to be bothered with your nonsense, after staying up so late in worry. She only went to bed because I convinced her to, and I can promise you a world of lecturing when you get home later.” If slamming the bedroom door would feel like a slap to the face, then Ren closing it silently feels like being torn to shreds by a vengeful raccoon. With rabies. And a deadly manicure pedicure combination. And a vendetta against guys in glasses.

Logan grabs his bag from the kitchen counter—already put together in preparation for a hasty exit, of course—and darts down the street to hassle Roman.

“Oh, Thylktor, always a pleasure. Am I correct in assuming you’re an early riser as well? Never mind, silly question, of course you are. Such a common characteristic in successful Researchers such as ourselves.” Logan, long since used to the whirlwind style of conversation from Roman’s mother, manages to squeeze in a wave before she backs away from the door. “Feel free to wake Roman yourself, Ceth knows he won’t be up and about of his own volition at this hour. I’ve no doubt his grades would improve if he just applied himself to a better schedule, but if he’s to be stubborn, I suppose you’re doing your best to reverse his poor decisions.” Shortly enough, the sound of furiously scribbling pencils rises from the next room over, background noise for Logan’s expedition up to Roman’s room. He shrugs his bag higher up on his shoulder.

“Roman, Patton is ready early. We’re leaving now, so get out here in the next five minutes of I’m leaving without you.” Logan takes the muffled groan from behind the door as begrudging acknowledgement.

“Is there a reason you picked our house to scream in, or am i just that lucky?” Pib materializes in the doorframe down the hall, their arms folded and their lip curled. “Hi, Logan.”

“Pib.” Logan nods, his eyes drifting past them to see their spotless room. “Any exciting projects coming up? Something I could help with, maybe?”

“Since you were last here, you mean? Thylktor, if you genuinely believe I get two fascinating projects worth pursuing in as many weeks, you’re playing yourself for a fool. Shame, I always thought you were the smarter one between you and my brother.” Pib shifts their weight in the near silence, save for the sound of Roman scrambling to get ready and moaning about how unnecessarily early it was. “You’re welcome to come take a look at the current one, though. Maybe I missed something that your genius input can provide. Take care to note my sarcasm before entering my room.”

Sparing a glance at Roman’s still-closed door, Logan accepts the invitation. Just like Pib, the room is immaculate, populated only be a simple bed, a desk, and an obscene amount of paper. Oh, and the countless bookcases that might as well be the wallpaper with how much they obscure the actual wall. Can’t forget the one true passion in the Thyrrak household. At the desk stands a simple black chair, over which a lengthy white string is draped.

“Measurements and scaling,” Pib says, pointing at the occasional streak of black ink marring the string. “I was supposed to be looking into the evolutionary divergence of the tarasque from a non-trystopian giant turtle, found a misidentified shell shard in a scholarly article, and now I’m looking at the regenerative properties of zburator scales, and the effect of those scales based on their Canis lupus origins.” Pib shrugs. “Life’s weird like that.”

If Logan were someone else, he might wonder about the strings of fate seeming to direct his repeated encounters with things related to zburators. Being the person of science that he is, however, he leans closer to look at the papers and pushes aside thoughts of fate. “Any reliable references from artistic interpretations?” The mere idea of a zburator is the closest most people had gotten, as it was a truly rare thing to find a calm zburator to depict, and still less common for it to sit still long enough for the artist to survive the session.

“Just descriptions. Twelve foot wingspan, so scale that down to a foot on this piece of string, and translate the same scale to the other measurements.” Pib winds the string up and down their arm like cast, running the frayed end under their thumbnail. “That is, of course, assuming these measurements are even accurate in the first place, which I have no way to prove. First creature to follow the Cethyphyirr flicker, first hypothesized Ejnathryk occurrence, and all we have is guesswork based on shadows cast by the moon.”

Running a hand over the ink on the page, Logan grins and holds up his finger. “Not to bounce between topics, but this smudge proof ink might have been your proudest moment, you know. Could’ve made a pretty penny and never had to worry about funds for your studies again.”

“My proudest moment will be becoming the first person to give a concise, concrete, and accurate report on zburators, but thanks for the input. Didn’t ask for it, but thanks.” Pib elbows Logan out of the way to sit down. “I don’t suppose you or Roman know how to draw a zburator?”

“No, I unfortunately was not the one to—” Logan cuts himself off, uncertain how much information Roman has shared with his family. Thankfully, Pib obviously isn’t really tuned into the conversation—at least, not enough to notice Logan’s uncertainty. “No, neither I nor Roman can help you there.”

Pib sighs through their nose, prodding at their cheek with the string. “Didn’t think so. Speak a’ Kryntyk.” The door down the hall creaks open, revealing Roman at his best in a T-shirt and sweatpants. He nods blearily at Logan, flips off Pib, and yawns.

“Let’s go if we’re going,” Roman mumbles, wiping bits of sleep from his eyes. “Later, nerd.”

“See you, loser,” Pib replies, still preoccupied with the papers. Still winding and unwinding that string. “Bye, Logan. Have fun being a normal student that actually gets to go to school without it being against your will.”

“With pleasure. Bye, Pib.” Logan follows Roman down the stairs and to the door, foot tapping impatiently when a hesitation in the name of food is mentioned.

“I’m hungry, and you cut short my beauty rest. Not that I need it, but I do have an appearance to maintain, and that maintenance includes a proper diet.” Ignoring this point, Logan pulls Roman out the front door.

“Didn’t ask, don’t care, and hurry up. A pompous attitude isn’t going to make you have a better impression on others, although I’m shocked you haven’t figured that out for yourself in the last eighteen years.” At Roman’s indignant huff, Logan takes off at a sprint. “Where’s the overconfidence now, huh?”

Nearly tripping over himself to catch up, Roman recovers by flinging his arms to the sides for balance. His pilfered breakfast apple goes flying. “Patton can wait, just hold on a second!”

“Gladly.” Logan halts, hiding a laugh behind his fist as Roman careens past him. Another block down, Patton freezes as Roman appears out of nowhere, Logan approaching at a relaxed stroll from behind. He takes his time without a care in the world, letting his eyes rake over the darkening storm clouds overhead. Beyond the school, some look heavy enough to burst, and others tremble with thunder.

“We’ve still got a bunch of time to spare. Why are you running?” Patton asks.

“Yes, Roman? Why did you feel the need to run? Enlighten us, please.” Logan tsks. “So foolish.”

“I didn’t—you were—he wasn’t—forget it.” Shaking his head, Roman waves his arm toward the school. “C’mon, you two were the ones that wanted to get there early.”

“Wait, did anyone get Virgil?” Patton asks. He worries a loose thread from his shirt, unraveling the seam between his fingers and regretting how they’d last parted. “I don’t want to exclude him.”

“It’s fine. He’s fine. We can go,” Roman says.

“What, are you afraid he’ll have me reveal a secret of yours? Watch out, the Logan Beast lurks in the night and hungers for handing out humiliation.”

“Shut up, you don’t have anything on me! I mean, besides grades, but everyone knows that.” Having reached the front doors of the school, Roman rushes ahead to hold them open. “After you. Chivalry may be dead, but I’m a necrophiliac.”

“That definitely does not mean what you think it means,” Logan says. Bolstered by the abnormally empty halls, he announces, “I’m going to try to speak with Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn, see if she has any input about my TryMyts prospects. Until lunch, stay out of trouble, no unsanctioned adventures, and absolutely no intimate relationships with the dead.” Logan leaves Roman gaping like a goldfish and Patton pleading for an explanation to the joke.

Being a relatively decent member of society, Logan stops to pick up at least five crumpled pieces of trash on his way to the TryMyts advisor wing. While Virgil swore Myjhyrr Senthyirr’s office was nestled in a corner and absorbed light as if it were oblivion, it really doesn’t look too bad in the soft glow of the morning—ignoring the storm brewing outside, of course. With a thin window and no doors directly beside it, the facade is nothing to write home about, but still. Logan turns his attention to the door directly on its right, which has a name card at eye level labeled ‘M. Kenthykyrrn.’ Satisfied with this being the right room, he knocks lightly.

“Enter.”

The coolness of the voice perfectly matches the interior of the room. Painted in alternating shades of forest green and navy blue, the walls are neither bare nor overflowing. The far wall framing the dark oak desk boasts years of teaching awards, for everything from success to student pride to official recommendations from scholarly higher ups. The remaining walls display minimal decorations, a field-changing article here, a significant Researcher biography there, but never anything too personal or revealing.

Before the imposing desk sits a child, their face buried in their hands and their shoulders shaking. The willowy woman across from them taps her nail on the desk meaningfully and clears her throat, glancing at Logan.

“Trilyo, please, if you wouldn’t mind?” The child—Trilyo, evidently—wipes a sleeve over their eyes and sniffles. WIthout a word, they shuffle past Logan and out the door, their face downcast and their jaw set. Logan glances back at the woman. “Please, have a seat.”

“Is Trilyo—”

“They’re fine. Have a seat.” The plastic of the cushion squeaks beneath him, a piercing noise in the quiet room. “How might I assist you? Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn, by the way, but you knew that.”

“The pleasure’s all mine. My name is Logan Thylktor.” My, my, my, me, me, me, can’t you talk about anyone besides yourself for once? “I was hoping to discuss my TryMyts with you.”

“You were hoping to?”

“Going to. I am going to discuss my TryMyts with you. Please.”

Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn wags a finger at him. “Much better. I think we’re going to get on swell. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll do just fine. I’ve seen you climbing in the class ranks, Thylktor. It’s really quite remarkable.” She slides a slim manila folder out of a desk drawer, smoothing it open on the table. “Very few write ups, as well. What seems to be the issue with your TryMyts that brings you here today?”

“I just have no idea where to begin, although I’m sure that’s too general for you to help me with.”

“Well, I’m sure you know I can’t exactly do it for you.” Logan nods, forcing himself to maintain eye contact as her dark eyes stare him down. “A nearly guaranteed TryMyts success would be to discover a new creature and gather all evidence involving its behavior, origins, that sort of thing. I don’t suppose you could pull off anything like that?”

Clicking his tongue, Logan hesitates. There was the disconcerting lack of information in Pib’s zburator research, or the scorch marks in that cave, or the weird enchantment hiding it, or—

“My apologies, Thylktor, but I’m afraid that’s all I have to offer, unless you can bring me specific project interferences. Why don’t you run along to class, and we’ll reconvene when you have a more concrete idea?”

“Right. Yes. Right, of course, thank you so much, Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn.” She nods, her straight brown hair spilling down her shoulder in a braid. He leaves with such haste that he almost doesn’t hear the teacher calling after him to ‘choose wisely.’

In the hall, Trilyo sits between the door to Myjhyrr Ryhanthyrri’s room and the one for Myjhyrr Kessyn-Syrru. Their shaking has ceased, but their head is securely hidden between their knees. Oddly enough, even with the school starting to fill up, no one seems to notice them. Sure, it’s a far removed corner from the regular classrooms, but it’s not invisible. However much the idea might revolt him, Logan supposes he should be the one to ensure their wellbeing. He’ll look like a good samaritan, if nothing else.

“Are you okay? I saw you run out of Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn’s room, and. Well. Um.”

Trilyo flinches, their grip on their elbows going white. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Your current location and disposition would indicate otherwise.” Judging by the lack of response, a cold approach won’t work with this kid. Alternative and impulsive tactics are required. Logan leans against the wall, sliding down beside Trilyo. “I’ve always admired the ambiguity of our world’s creation.” Trilyo doesn’t exactly answer, but they also don’t do anything to indicate an aversion to an impromptu storytime.

“I guess praising a star is a little odd, since it’s just like any other burning ball of gas, but celestial entities can have more power than anyone might suspect. I like to imagine that Alpha Ursae Minoris popped off the Cethyphyirr flicker out of spite, like the other stars thought it wasn’t good enough. Something about Ceth being born of spite seems really fitting, sort of gives it a reason for each subsequent Ejnathryk. Maybe the sheer force of spite in Ceth, even as a shambling mass of light and shapes, acted like a magnet for other Alpha Ursae Minoris shards to come down.” Logan lets out the barest hint of a chuckle. “Not exactly a scientific theory, but sometimes it’s fun to just let your mind run wild with hypotheses. Pretend reality is wrong so you can make up a better one.”

Trilyo sniffles. Mumbles something into their sleeve. Sniffles again. “Why’d you even tell me that? Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“I could have just left you alone on the floor here, but I don’t really think that’s what either of us want.”

“No, I guess it’s not. I’m Trilyo, usually.” They hold out a hand to shake, barely managing to meet Logan’s eye and instead settling somewhere around his nose. He offers a smile.

“Logan, full time. Pleasure to meet you. Where’s your first class, could I take you there?” He grabs Trilyo’s hand, foregoing the shake to tug them to their feet.

“It’s, um, it’s math. With Myjhyrr Pentheon.”

“Perfect, my room is just a few doors down from there. Let’s go.” Before Logan can set off down the hall, Trilyo squeezes his hand, their feet rooted in place.

“Um. I, uh, I wanted to tell you. About Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn. Um.” Logan puts on his best attempt at a patient and encouraging face, all too aware of how quickly time is ticking down to the beginning of class. As if on cue, the first warning bell rings. Trilyo clears their throat. “Since you, you know, you stayed with me. And everything. Um. I’m supposed to be a grade below where I am now, but. Um. Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn put in a recommendation for me to do my TryMyts early, and, um, yeah. I got a little emotional, I guess.” Trilyo scratches at the sleeve covering their shoulder, still not completely looking at Logan. “I was worried I wouldn’t be able to handle it, and I, um, I couldn’t, I didn’t, I mean—”

“You’re fine, Trilyo. You don’t have to say any more than that. What you’ve already been willing to share is more than enough. Let’s get you on to class, and I’ll fill in your teacher about the situation.” With a gentle hand on the fingers that aren’t incessantly running up and down an arm, Logan pulls Trilyo into the fray of students running to get to class. “Thank you for telling me. Truly, I do appreciate it, and if you can tell a complete stranger something that personal? I’m sure you’ll have no problem getting a remarkable TryMyts done, either.”

“You really think so?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”


	8. Chapter 8

The last time Roman was awake this early, Pib had accidentally set their shared room on fire with a flaming fox experiment. They swore the mixture was controlled and the equations foolproof, but the charred remains of Roman’s closet door said otherwise. Long story short, Roman was out of the house before the sun rose, and he did not much appreciate it.

They don’t share a room anymore.

“Thyrrak, in the name of all that Ceth gazes upon, I am going to hang you by your feet on the board if you don’t pay attention.” Myjhyrr Pentheon taps a pencil on the board meaningfully, drawing a circle around an equation. “The answer, if you would.”

“It represents the average change in velocity from time ‘t’ equals three to time ‘t’ equals seven.” Roman allows a bored tone, perfected through years of practice, to slip into his voice. He may not understand a word of what he’s saying, but sure as Ceth shines bright in the night can he fake it. If nothing else, it’s nice for people to think he’s smart and focused, even if he’s more concerned with running his thumbnail over the folded piece of paper in his pocket.

“Oh. Okay. Well, yes. Very nice, Thyrrak. Thank you.” With a wink and a shrug, Roman’s attention returns to the notes on his desk. Entirely blank, mind you, save for the lazy doodles in the margins. To even call them doodles is mostly lip service—they’re more like vain attempts at putting pencil to paper while fighting the urge to fall asleep. In case it wasn’t blatantly obvious, Roman is losing that fight. Miserably.

Roman continues to lose this fight several times over, his eyes nearly crusted shut by the time lunch rolls around. Thinking back to that lost breakfast apple, his stomach floods with hunger and remorse. He should have at least grabbed a banana to go with it while he had the chance, since Pib is certain to tear through them all once they find the basket, leaving Roman empty handed.

When he finally makes it to the trudging lunch line, all of the bananas are gone. Such is the way of life.

“Thanks so much,” Roman says, pulling his loaded tray from the counter. Making his way to the usual table, he swerves his shoulders to and fro in a desperate effort to keep the precarious stack upright. Just as he reaches his seat, the whole thing crashes down, containers and utensils flying every which way.

“Need some help there?” Patton asks. He sweeps an arm over the table, knocking debris from past uncleaned lunches aside. “Here’s your fruit cup, your milk carton, and your obligatory napkin that no one uses.” Roman barely manages to grunt his gratitude, which his tired mind assumes to be an acceptable medium of appreciation. “How’s your day been, kiddo?”

“Everything sucks and I want to go home.” Propping his chin on the table, Roman slouches and listlessly drags a spoon in circles around his styrofoam tray. “Why were you and Logan up so early, anyway?”

“That’s on a need to know basis,” Logan says, appearing out of nowhere with his own tray. “Do you need to? No.”

“Maybe you should leave the wordplay to Patton,” Roman says. His opinion loses all credibility as Patton bounces in his seat.

“Logan, you just made a joke based on the pronunciation of hodoprones!”

“I think you mean homophone, and no, I did nothing of the sort. You’ve no evidence to insinuate the mere possibility that I, a well-respected member of society, could ever even fathom doing such a thing, let alone carry it out.”

“The lad doth protest too much, methinks,” Virgil mutters. He drops into the seat beside Patton, ignoring the hope on Patton’s face and turning to Logan. “Admit you made a pun and move on with it.”

Patton bites his lip, glancing at Virgil’s hands as he picks at a tray full of sandwiches, fruits, and chocolate chip cookies. “Virgil, I wanted to apologize for—”

“Water over the bridge, Pat.”

Logan holds up a finger, tilting his head to the side. “It’s supposed to be water under—”

“I know what I said.” Virgil stabs at a piece of fruit, clearly not interested in pursuing Patton’s apology.

Never one to be outdone with topic jumps, Roman talks over Logan’s frustrated rambling on the semantics of idioms. “More importantly, why hasn’t my question been answered? Waking me up that early has to be, like, some sort of crime. Punishable by giving me a cookie.”

Virgil smacks away Patton’s hand, which is already extended to offer one. “Your reward for surviving such an atrocity can be me not murdering you in your sleep, of which you obviously need so much.” The threat is accompanied by a truly fearsome transfer of food from tray to mouth.

“Oh, I’m so scared.” Roman raises his hands in mock terror, idly wondering whether Virgil can tell how much genuine fear his threat incurred. When he lowers them once more, his fingers come to rest on the outline of the folded paper in his pocket. He jolts.

“Says the guys who didn’t think to come back and get me.” Virgil raps the table, trying to swallow around a thick wad of cookie dough as protests erupt from everyone else. “Hold your horses, be stable, quit horsing around and what have you, I know you knew I’d get here eventually. Nothing personal.”

Patton takes a shot at dominating the conversation again, allowing a brief reprieve for Virgil to eat his lunch in peace. While the latter sets about peeling a banana—much to Roman’s chagrin—Patton changes topics. Roman’s protests about the apparent reappearance of the banana basket after her went through the line are ignored. “So, we’ve survived this much of the school year already. How are we gonna make it through the rest, and who do I need to schmooze to get us there? I’m armed to the teeth with candy bundles, and I’m willing to part with at least three. Maybe four, if someone else tosses in a few brownies for collateral.”

“Start by saying hello to this kid. Hope you guys don’t mind.” Logan gestures with his elbow as someone shuffles up to the table, their shoulders looking more like oversized earrings than independent body parts.

Roman, for all his outer glory and self importance, can’t find it in himself not to let his gaze linger on the newcomer. Their hair drops long and straight to their thighs, which would probably sound more impressive were it not for their barely scraping the bar at five feet tall. The dark green shock streaking the otherwise obsidian hair is rivaled only by the faint twinkle of mischief in their sage green eyes. They brush their hair aside as they draw near, revealing a parade of piercings marching up their ear. Where the line ends at the lobe is a lime green T.

“Everyone, this is Trilyo. Trilyo, this is Virgil, Patton and Roman.” Logan points at everyone in turn, shuffling his belongings aside when he finishes. Roman reaches for his pocket—and the paper inside—as discreetly as he can, trying to think of a polite exit strategy.

“Hi. Just so, um, just so you know, the T means, uh, it means to call me Trilyo. And they. Please.” In a voice hardly above a whisper, they continue, “on S-days, it’s Sage and she. Oh, and, um, Helsyirr and he. For H-days, I mean.” Their words gain strength as they start to defend themself from unasked questions. “If people want to get on my case about those things, then I’d, um, I want to make it less difficult than I—than it has to be.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Roman says, “but feel free to take my seat. I actually just remembered, I’ve got something to take care of. With someone. Somewhere else.” He slides his chair out, patting the seat like an invitation for Trilyo. “Don’t let these guys starve, okay? I hear that’s not always the best first impression. Don’t quote me on that, either.”

As soon as he’s through the doors and out of the building, Roman allows himself a disgusted groan. If he’d sounded any more stiff or closed off, Trilyo probably could have mistaken him for someone’s parent, trying to seem cool with the kids having none of it. Were it not for the unwitting damage control his friends would have to do now, Trilyo would probably never want to speak to him again. That’s the only foreseeable outcome within reason, as far as Roman is concerned.

He draws his jacket closer against the faint breeze, careful not to crumple the paper in his pocket any more than it already is. Whenever fall decides to officially announce itself, he’ll switch over to a heavy coat, but until that happens, a stubborn pout is all he can offer. The stubborn pout quickly turns to a displeased scowl as someone else appears at his side. Roman allows his eyes to slip shut, curious if it might deter any unwelcome conversation.

“Hey, Roman.”

Evidently not.

“Hey, Than.” His words are hardly more than a mumble, drowned out by a sudden gust of wind, which promptly whacks him in the face with a leaf. “Don’t tell me it was you.” The paper crinkles in his pocket.

“So you found my letter, I gather?” Than’s footfalls are accompanied by the soft crunch of dead grass under his feet. The breeze echoes his words. “The grass is going away quite quickly this year.”

“Don’t make me say it.” The answering silence is prompt enough. “Ceth, man, you’re really gonna make me say it?” More silence. More wind. A storm cloud grumbles in the distance. “Fine. Whatever. I’m not even mad. I don’t even care. The river reaps souls and swallows hopes.”

“All because it flows backwards.” Than exhales, an almost laugh that Roman doesn’t return. For all of the hassle Virgil’s been through with Than, the guy sure is thorough.

Roman has long since learned to take pride in his acting skills. Be it hiding a grade to not disappoint Pib or hiding a TryMyts to avoid disappointing his parents, he’s gotten arguably decent at putting up an unshakeable front. The latest obstacle from Than, however, has provided considerably more difficulty. Nothing Roman can’t handle, of course.

Coming home to a cold house has always been Roman’s reality. Operating separate from his family has always been Roman’s reality. Working his tail off for no reward has always been Roman’s reality. Finding random letters in his bag, even, has always been Roman’s reality—he’d once offered to be the middleman for hopeless romantics around the school. Long story short, the service petered off around the time he entered his junior year. Everything from senseless pining to obsessive stalking, he’d helped facilitate and, when the situation called for it, de-escalate.

Unmarked letters would appear on occasion. That wasn’t Roman’s concern. His concern was more in the contents of this particular letter. Sealed with a silvery dragon silhouette and scrawled in gold ink, he would have had to be a fool not to open it. Even now, knowing he was the recipient of thoughtful scribing from the likes of Than, Roman can’t really say he regrets opening it.

“The grass is going away

Quite quickly this year,” I’ll say

So just for me

If you’ll agree

Kindly answer in this way:

I know the line may fit many tropes

And writing this makes me seem a dope

But kindly answer

Thou fair romancer

“The river reaps souls and swallows hopes”

Roman smiles to himself, the harsh wind yanking him out of his ponderings. He holds up the letter from his pocket between two fingers, examining the crisply pressed fold. “You know, writing ‘tomorrow at lunch’ at the bottom was really ambiguous. What if I didn’t know where to go? What if I didn’t find it on the right day? Why are you demonizing the river?” Cracking an eye open, he glances at Than. “And ‘fair romancer?’ Really?”

“Don’t attack the messenger, I just needed a clever way to let you know that the magic is going haywire in more places than just the barriers by that zburator cave.”

“Yeah, I already—” Roman’s other eye shoots open as he whips his head around to stare at Than. “You saw the cave? How did I not see you? When were you there? By the brightest flickers of Cethyphyirr itself, Than, what happened to your face?”

Than grins, running the back of his fingers over his scarring cheek. “It’s healing nicely, don’t you think? I suspect it’s something to do with all this wind, making new barriers, sending rivers flowing backwards, all that manner of speaking.”

“Get to your point, Than, because I know you didn’t lure me out here to flirt over your limerick skills.”

“To tell the truth, I knew you weren’t about to talk to me of your own volition.”

“That’s fair.”

“But with the reversed rivers and the increased zburator activity, not to mention the storm situation over there, I figured someone with more swaying power than me ought to know.” Roman shuts his eyes again, quite finished with the painfully slow progress of said impending clouds. “Logan would have been my first choice, him being so smart and all, plus our mutual connection through Virgil, but I’d never get the chance to talk to him, even if I wanted to. He’s rebuffed every attempt at conversation I’ve ever made since he started talking to Virgil, so I was hoping you might be willing to—”

Roman backhands Than’s chest, halting whatever he was trying to request. At Than’s protests, he hisses a shushing sound. “Did you hear that?” The building behind them remains calm, save for the regular lunchtime bustle. The same dead grass making the same crunching sounds under the same relentless wind. “It sounded like a yell.” In the hushed silence, a distant shout. Roman casts a pained glance back to the school, from which the warning bell to end lunch chimes. Without giving himself a chance to reconsider, he shoves past Than and sprints in the opposite direction.

The few scraggly trees ringing the school property offer virtually no resistance as Roman surges past them. With the almost imperceptible cover of the leaves between him and the building, he traces his way around to what’s essentially the school’s backyard. By sheer luck or mere happenstance, he manages to avoid the hawk eyes of the teachers, who always seem relatively Kryntyk-bent on corralling everyone into a ridiculously cramped building. This has never quite made sense to Roman, who’s always been of the mindset that open doors allow for an open mind—that’s the polite way of giving his opinion, at least.

“You know,” a voice mumbles at his shoulder, “the teachers don’t care as long as you tell them you’re just skipping for TryMyts stuff. You don’t need to sneak around.”

Roman nearly leaps out of his skin, delivering a harsh elbow to Than’s stomach. “Warn a guy next time, why don’t you? And shut up for a hot second, I lost the source of the shouting.” As if in answer to his latest observation, the faint calls return, more of an echo than a discernible voice. Roman feels his ear twitch. “This way.”

With reluctance abundantly evident in his posture, Roman tugs Than along behind him, heading for the line of full trees closing the circle of dead ones. The yells crescendo, almost tangible by the time Roman yanks Than through the last of the green. Just on the other side stands a trembling Trilyo, their back to the boys. They raise a shaky hand before them, and that’s when Roman notices the demonic mockery of a bird perched on a branch above them.

“Why in the name of Ceth itself is a jynthykryk on school grounds?” Roman whispers, his voice a hushed mixture of awe and horror. Calling the creature would be flattery at best, and detailing just how utterly wrong it looks would be an offense in and of itself. Roman’s strongest repulsion is, always has been, and always will be that glaring quintet of eyes, the perimeters just barely distanced enough not to be a trio. Even if the one in the middle, alight in hues of gold, weren’t staring them down, the four framing it are unnerving enough on their own. They’re less like four pupils and more like two diamonds split through the middle and crammed into four separate sockets. All are gold, all are angular, and all ar staring intently down at Trilyo as if they were its next meal. Its head cranes at an unnatural angle, showing off its glinting silver beak in a gaping yawn, which reveals five teeth that may as well be knives crowding around a five-pronged golden tongue. The latter flicks in and out, in and out, as those piercing eyes size up Trilyo.

“Okay, you get Trilyo out of here, and I’ll go for the jynthykryk,” Roman murmurs. He regrets phrasing it like an order the moment the words leave his mouth.

“Are you kidding? Bossing me around?” Than huffs with what Roman finds to be an unnecessary amount of self importance. “I think not. Back it up, buddy, and take after me.” With his arms over his head, Than barges in front of Trilyo, easily commandeering the jynthykryk’s attention. “Over here, you pathetic excuse for a bird! What, did Ceth forget what a bird looked like when it spat you out of the sky?”

Grabbing its attention was the wrong move. Waving his arms about was the wrong move. Daring to make a sound in the first place was the wrong move. Taking all of this into consideration, the absolute worst thing to have done was to compare that monstrosity to a bird, especially to its face. Whether it understands words is largely unimportant—the wrathful gleam in its eyes is far more concerning.

With a sickening screech, it flares up a wing, showing off a coat of razor-sharp black feathers tipped in silver. The prongs crowning each wing boast gold talons, sharp enough to make Roman’s stomach hurt just from looking at them. It rises on stalked legs, which end in prickling gold claws that could easily tear out Roman’s throat at a moment’s notice. He swallows thickly.

“Get down!” The words rip out of Roman before he can stop them, his mouth reacting before his brain can finish comprehending what it doesn’t want to register. At another screech, the jynthykryk takes wing, swooping down from the trees to claw at Trilyo’s head. Tha shoves them to the ground, throwing his body over theirs like a shield. With his best imitation of bravery, Roman gives a shout, throwing his arms up to snag its attention.

To Roman’s dismay, it works.

The creature whips its head toward him, careening down from the sky to snap at his hair. Roman ducks, catching the plumage of its blade of a tail in his fist. Shards of glass would score his hands less, but it’s enough to faze the animal.

For a moment.

Than is no help whatsoever, still yelling directions over a clearly terrified Trilyo. In one of his rare moments of silence, during which Roman is still screaming bloody murder, they manage to scrabble under the cover of the trees. The leaves shimmer at the edges, just enough to declare the presence of magic. Taking this in stride as the reason for why no teachers have come to investigate the hollering yet, Roman returns his focus to Than and the jynthykryk.

As it ascends for another diving attack, Roman waves Than to his side, ignoring his protests and curses. “If we coordinate our idiocy, we might actually survive this thing, but that isn’t gonna happen unless you work with me and we get our acts together. So look up, keep up, and don’t you dare shut up, not on your life.” Roman wills the fires of Kryntyk into his eyes as he draws Than in by the collar. “If you endanger even one life in that school then so help me, as Ceth is my witness, I will end you. Go.”

He shoves Than back into the clearing, and he waits. Its feathers shower shreds of leaves down as it literally slices through the enchanted trees, its five eyes all focused solely on Than. Perfect for Roman, who darts out at the last possible moment and latches onto the sharp tail with all his might. The jynthykryk screeches, such a horrible sound to grate against Roman’s ears as it whips into the air. Than watches, stunned just before the point of silence, as it lifts Roman higher and higher, so high up that a fall could very well be deadly. Such is a fact of which Roman is all too aware. He digs his nails in deeper, yanking out more knife feathers as the tail whips him around. Too focused on keeping a tight grip, Roman hardly notices his ears ringing as his teeth knock together—certainly an ache he’ll feel tenfold later.

That’s when the tail snaps back up, too fast for him to adjust, and he loses his grip.

Roman feels himself tumbling through empty air, the only purchase his hands can find being the loose blade feathers he’s crushing in a death grip. As the ground rushes up, too fast, nowhere near fast enough, he can just barely make out Than’s voice, splitting the air to reach him. Having no idea what he’s yelling, Roman curls into a ball and sends out every prayer he can think of to Ceth, to another Ejnathryk, even to Kryntyk. How the enchanted trees have gone unnoticed for so long, and still work to this extent, is beyond Roman. He allows himself to uncurl a little as the jynthykryk speeds past him, its eyes locked onto the still ranting Than. Still screaming. Still diverting attention. Just like Roman asked.

Roman shoots out a hand, snatching the creature by its tail once more, but he’s prepared this time. As the trees thicken with the rising ground, he hooks his shoes around what looks to be a sturdy enough branch, and pulls up with muscles he didn’t even know he had. The jynthykryk hesitates for only a moment before beating its wings with a renewed vigor. The branch snaps.

Spurred on by Than’s incessant yelling, Roman manages to right his head, this time bracing his sole on the next branch and not waiting to yank. The one oversized feather in his left fist, shining in various hues of silver and gold, lashes about dangerously. In all likelihood, this is just an identifying feather—identifeather, he wants to joke, but no, this isn’t the time—a feather that indicates the jynthykryk’s gender. Nevertheless, something tells Roman to pull it out. He can’t.

The branch bows under the added force of a teenager fighting a demon monster bird, coming far too close to breaking for Roman’s comfort. That fifth gleaming tooth, curved and poised to attack, gets ever closer to Than’s face, which is bright red for a number of reasons. As the silver beak creaks open and the slithering tongue flicks toward Than, the feather bites jewels of red from Roman’s fingers. He could let go. He should let go. He does not.

As he screams out to “duck!” from the deepest recesses of his throat, finally, finally, the feather comes out. Roman finds himself launched into the air as his potential energy shatters into kinetic chaos, his stomach taking refuge in his throat. The jynthykryk, obviously unprepared for the sudden shift and the loss of a relatively significant feather, crashes beak first into the dirt. Than. who managed to listen to two whole instructions, is crouched over himself not three feet from where the creature’s scrabbling legs poke out of the ground. This is when Roman remembers that he is not, in fact, on the ground yet. By some miracle, the last branch he’d hassled was close to the dirt, but that little tidbit doesn’t keep his gut from trying to consume itself as he hurtles back down. Than breaks Roman’s fall—against both of their wills.

Trilyo appears from between the trees, their streak of green tangled in the surrounding leaves. They dart out to meet Roman, snatching the prominent feather in a sleeve-covered hand. He hadn’t even realized he’d managed to hang on to it, instead rolling over to hold his stomach and groan. Than follows suit, burying his face in his knees as he curls into a ball.

Without so much as a warning to either of the boys, Trilyo latches a hand around the blades ringing the jynthykryk’s neck and frees its head with ease. Trilyo doesn’t even allow it the mercy of one final screech before the plunge the feather tip into its center eye. The creature vanishes with less flair than a puff of smoke, leaving only the sharpest dagger of a feather in Trilyo’s hands. Every other blade-edged feather, from those in Than’s hair to the ones Roman stuck through his skin, every last one disappears. Trilyo turns to head back to the school.

“Woah, woah, wait, don’t you think we deserve an explanation?” Than demands. He lurches to his feet, curving over his core as he grabs feebly at their shoulder.

“The biggest and deadliest feather is, um, it’s the only thing that can destroy jynthykryks, and it has to be their own, in the, ah, in the center eye. Make it a set of six to split up the continuity of the, um, the quintets to destroy the creature.” Trilyo tosses their hair over their shoulder. “Everybody knows that.”

“Okay, but why were you dealing with a jynthykryk in the first place? How did you even know to go through the tree line? Ceth’s sake, Trilyo, I literally just saw you at lunch not twenty minutes ago!” Roman wrings his hands together, wishing he had enough strength left in his arms to tear his hair out.

“What, you’re really stuck on that? I don’t want to—I mean, I’m not about to just give it away. I don’t want to worry about people, um, about other people stealing—taking, I mean, taking my TryMyts idea. I can’t exactly have that, now, can I?” Ignoring Than’s demands and Roman’s pleas, Trilyo leaves.

“I guess that could’ve gone better,” Than admits. “But it could’ve gone a lot worse, too. For one, the majority of my face is still intact. At least, what was intact to begin with. I’d rather not think about how much worse it would be if I hadn’t already lost feeling from all those burns.”

“What Trytsu are you even aiming for, Than?” Roman turns from where Trilyo was to scrutinize his companion, ignoring how his knees ache from kneeling. It hurts too much to stand. “I know it’s out of nowhere, but it’s a fair question. I wouldn’t call that rescuing the creature, it definitely wasn’t hands off, and I’d be lying if I said that constituted actual fighting. If anything, you just covered for me. What Trytsu do you honestly believe is right for you?”

Than shrugs, letting his hands drift to his shoulders. “Maybe I’ll stick with undecided, work with Virgil and Myjhyrr Senthyirr. Don’t forget, impossible though it may be to believe, Thriyv did have a life before he walked into yours.” He pauses on his way to the trees, one hand resting on a trunk. “And I really hope you’ll pass on that stuff about the magic going haywire. I’m sure you and your friends can do way more with it than me.”

Roman watches in silence as Than vanishes, gone just like any trace of the jynthykryk. Something in him wants to call after the guy, to demand an answer, to apologize for misjudging him, to thank him for his help, but no. Roman says nothing. Alone again, still picking feathers from his skin, he goes inside.


	9. Chapter 9

humans improving is met with dubious silence. “Regardless, as I’m sure you learned in some history class or another, it took all three Trytsun banding together to stave off the storm.” Sweeping an arm toward the window, Myjhyrr Senthyirr sighs. “Obviously, it was only a temporary solution.”

“Sure, but what does any of that have to do with me? I get the idea of community togetherness or whatever, but I learned about that stuff in, like, second year history. I’m apparently supposed to be going home, not to mention I haven’t even decided on a Trytsu yet.” Virgil bites his lip as Myjhyrr Senthyirr’s face shifts, wishing he could take back that last part.

“It affects you because the Trytsun are gonna need all the help they can get in preventing whatever that storm might bring.”

“Wait.” Virgil kneads the back of his neck, rolling his eyes skyward. “You mean to tell me that the fate of the world hangs on the shoulders of a school full of teenagers?”

“Of course not, we aren’t idiots. I mean to tell you that it’s better safe than sorry, as no one can know just what manner of damage that storm can inflict, given the likelihood that it’s running on magic.” Myjhyrr Senthyirr gestures to the door. “Best get going before the world as we know it collapses, yes? I’m sure you’ll know what to do when the time comes.”

Before he can totally process what’s happening, Virgil finds himself ushered out the door, the sound of a lock clicking behind him. It might just be a trick of the school’s subpar light, but he could almost swear he sees a shock of green hair disappearing around the end of the hall.

“Right. Home, then,” Virgil tells himself, his feet moving more on impulse than intention. Most of the halls have already emptied, the students thrilled to go home early without negative repercussions. Even with the removed obstacles of other humans, it takes a solid five minutes for Virgil to check the classrooms where his friends should be. All are abandoned and locked—they left without him. He isn’t sure why this stings so much, as walking alone is pretty much routine at this point.

Where a calm scene of prim trees and maintained topiaries normally greets him, Virgil finds a stark disparity in the peace as he shoulders open the front doors of the school. Replacing a calm breeze is a furious wind, whipping leaves from the trees and kicking pinecones like debris across the pavement. Gone are the birdsongs that normal accompany the idle chatter of the trystopian creatures. The air is instead populated by one chirping anthem, the same droning chorus as he heard earlier, but its source is nigh impossible to trace. Perhaps most concerning, albeit most normal, are the dark shadows swooping between the clouds, which grumble and pulse with a vengeance. The sheet of something—not rain, no, that’s not quite right—but something cascading from the clouds draws ever nearer, and if Virgil allowed it, the something would probably back him into a corner until there was no hope of escaping the storm.

Decidedly not interested in letting that happen, Virgil bows his head to brace himself against the wind gusts. His hoodie flattens to his chest, outlining his lanky frame in an attempt to rip free. Fighting to fill his lungs in spite of the air pressure makes his following instinctual sigh difficult, to say the least.

“Did you get held back so the storm could weed out the weak? Or did you just get lost in that escapable labyrinth you call a brain?”

“Beat it, Than.” Virgil scowls, yanking his hood up to block his view of the approaching boy. Under a mishmash of black and yellow clothing, Than wears a bright, albeit slightly hurt, smile.

“Can’t you take a joke? I was just kidding, there’s no need to get all butthurt over it.” Despite Virgil’s best attempts to speed walk away, Than catches up in a matter of seconds, still wearing the cheerful grin.

“If you’re gonna act all friendly now, why bother bugging me when I’m with my friends? Or maybe you’re scared someone else is gonna figure out you’re all talk, and they’ll leave you quaking outside the building, too, just like last time.” Harsh, sure, but necessary. Virgil jerks his chin to the left, huffing a sharp exhale through his nose. “Just get lost. By all means, you can get swept up in the storm for all I care, as long as you don’t do it near me.”

“What’s up with your hand?” Than pokes his nose over Virgil’s shoulder, evidently ignoring the jab at his own hecklers. Virgil shoves his wrapped hand in a pocket with more force than is probably necessary, wrinkling his brow when it hardly hurts at all, given what injury is supposed to be stinging from the impact.

“None of your business.” Nearly tripping over himself on empty air, Virgil makes a hasty attempt to recover from the weak comeback. “So are you just gonna stalk me all the way home?” His follow-up is less than stinging.

“We just passed the way for my house, so apparently.” Than’s eyes, ever restless, ever inquisitive, bounce from the storm to Virgil and back. “Although, I wouldn’t mind walking just a little faster.”

While Virgil hates to agree with Than, the guy does have a point. The storm clouds have hastened their arrival, trembling and sparking viciously. Whether they’re shooting bolts of lightning or literal downpours of electricity, Virgil has no intention of finding out. He picks up his pace, falling into an easy rhythm with Than as their feet pound in tandem against the pavement. Past where he would turn for Patton’s house, past where he would turn to see Logan and Roman, Virgil allows the familiar sight of dwindling civilization to relax him. Smooth pavement turns to gravel turns to mud, and Than keeps pace with him the whole time. Sure, Virgil could try to outrun him, but he’s known Than for a solid ten years by now, many of which were spent chasing each other around for fun. Virgil isn’t going anywhere that Than can’t follow.

“So I guess you haven’t moved, then?” Than asks, breaking the silence Virgil had so fleetingly treasured.

“You mean since you tried to convince everyone in a fifty mile radius that I had magic, despite there not having been a known person in years to possess magic, let alone wield it for others to see?” Virgil scoffs. “No, actually, we hadn’t considered moving away to protect me safety or my family’s pride. Thank you for asking, though.”

“Are you seriously still on that?” Than slows as they approach the solitary house crawling with ivy. Virgil’s irritation is only furthered by the utter lack of perspiration on Than’s forehead. “That was, like, five years ago. Aren’t you over that yet?”

“It’s cute that you think I’d be ‘over’ an attempt on my life.”

“It’s cute that you take a joke as being an attempt on your life.”

“Virgil, hurry in, and bring your friend!” The resulting groan from Virgil is not exaggerated at the woman’s voice. “That storm’s getting darker, and I’d sooner leash you to a table than let you stay out in this weather.”

Virgil’s mom is many things. She is currently leaning out the front door and yelling at two noticeably disheveled teenagers, but that’s beside the point. She is an avid wearer of increasingly eclectic clothes, based solely on comfort and convenience. She is an outspoken supporter of Virgil’s inexplicable decision to go vegetarian. She is an eternally doting wife to Virgil’s mother. She is a soft spoken woman that brings a gentle warmth to her wife’s more brittle mannerisms.

One thing she is not, however, is aware of the situation regarding the falling out between Virgil and Than. This is how Virgil finds himself scowling at the hardwood floors as his mom putters about in the dining room, fussing over Than. Beneath her demands about recent developments in Than’s life, as well as why it’s been so long since he dropped by, Virgil pulls his bandaged hand out of his pocket. While Than preens under the attention that’s so obviously a rarity at his own home, Virgil cautiously unwraps the cloth covering a wound he never felt, he never saw.

Aside from the usual dirt built up under his fingers, the scars from accidents involving attempts regarding butterfly knife tricks, and regular old freckles, there’s nothing. No glass, no gashes, no gouges, nothing. Virgil catches himself before he can let out a stunned gasp, quickly stuffing his clearly unharmed hand back in his pocket.

“I don’t know what you’ve got going on over there,” his mom interjects, “but if it’s got anything to do with your late night escapades, consider them cancelled. No ne’er do well activities with a mystery storm on the horizon.”

Virgil nods once, not looking at Than, not wanting to see his reaction to the mention of disappearing at night. “Go it, no ne’er do well activities here. Mother home?”

His mom backs up from fawning over Than, her eye flicking up as she thinks for a moment. “She should be out back, pulling some weeds. Be a bud and tell her to come inside for me?”

“No,” Virgil says, moving to do exactly as requested. He yanks Than along with him, bending down to overcome his extra three inches of height on the guy. “If you so much as cough at my moms in the wrong tone,” he hisses, “I will light you on fire and scatter your ashes so far that the horizon itself will be jealous of your reach, and you will shrivel away into nothingness, forgotten to all that care to remember. Understood? Because I have several books of matches in my room, none of which I am afraid to use.” Than appears wholly unperturbed, but Virgil likes to think he’s just hiding his terror.

To call what lies beyond the house a ‘garden’ would be a dreadful understatement. Compared to this, that secret clearing outside the zburator cave was akin to someone sneezing sporadic flower seeds and watering them with seltzer. Stalks of gladiolus poke out from twining ivy that crawls down the bricks of the house, framing the standing baskets that overflow with daisies and morning glories and lotuses. The most wrong part of it all for Virgil is seeing life’s beauty marred by Than’s presence. It’s most definitely Virgil’s imagination, but he fancies the thought that the amaryllises and alstroemerias wilt a little as Than reaches out to grace them with the side of his hand. Worse still, the other side of Virgil’s mind toys with the idea that the freesias and lilacs brighten, just a little, at Than’s touch.

Amidst it all sits Virgil’s mother, dirt caking her arms and face. She fights with a stubborn weed crowding a cluster of roses, a hmph of satisfaction catching in her throat once she succeeds. With a shake of her long black hair at the weed—not unlike the taunting of a petulant child—she turns and startles at Virgil and Than’s silent appearance.

“You’re home early. Who’s your friend?” She dusts off her knees, rising from a kneel to place her fists on her hips. “Cutting class with the local delinquents, are we?”

“Than isn’t a—”

“I didn’t mean him. You’re the delinquent, you goof.” Virgil’s mother gives him a light punch on the arm before joining his beckoning mom at the door. “Don’t get electrocuted by the storm. If there’s lightning, crouch low and avoid trees.”

“Got it.” Virgil gives her a half salute before turning to Than. “If you want, I guess you can stay, since my moms would probably think I’m leaving you for dead if I let you go. Come on.” Ignoring Than’s bewildered look, he pulls an about face and walks around the side of the house.

“What are you doing?” Than asks. “The door’s back there, is it not?”

“Yeah, no, my room’s on the second floor, and the door’s broken.”

“That literally makes no sense.” Virgil sweeps an arm to stop Than and present something in one grand gesture. Before them stands a rickety set of wooden stairs, stacked along the side of the house and leading to a cracked window.

“Up we go, then,” Virgil says, taking the lead. He ignores Than’s low voice muttering a string of curses as the staircase wobbles beneath them. Without a hint of hesitation, Virgil kicks at the base of the window until it gives, flipping over itself into the room. Virgil somersaults in after it.

“Are you coming, or what?” Virgil holds an impatient hand out the window, a meager offering in comparison to Than’s remarkable lack of grace as he tumbles to the floor. “If you’d be so kind as to direct your attention to stage right, you’ll see my door that no creature on this planet has the capacity to open.”

Indeed, once he recovers enough to make an attempt on the door, Than finds that it does not, in fact, possess any desire to budge. Rather, it merely groans in protest as he repeatedly slams into it with his shoulder, trying to jam it further to force it to give.

“Shockingly enough,” Virgil says, “I wasn’t lying about the door.”

“Shockingly enough,” Than says, “that doesn’t mean I can’t fix it.”

“Shockingly enough,” Virgil says, “I am going to eject you through the window if you break something else of mind again.”

“Again?” Than switches to bracing one foot on the wall, his torso nearly perpendicular to the stubborn door. “What else did I break?”

“Try the singular rope bracelet I had from my birth parents, which, by the way, was burned up the first time you abandoned me in a zburator cave. It’s ridiculous that I have to even specify which time I’m talking about. Speaking of which, you also almost broke my entire person by letting me get burnt to a crisp while you ran away to safety by yourself, without even thinking that maybe you could get some help.”

“Yeah, but you’re fine now.” Than drops his foot, inspecting the wall for any shoe scuffs. All clear. “I was just kidding when I said I was gonna leave you there, you know.”

“Right, because it was totally hilarious for me to think I was dying, not to mention seeing the utter destruction of the only physical connection I had to my birth parents.” Virgil lowers himself onto the bed, pulling a tassel-trimmed pillow on his lap to fidget with.

“It was just a little thing of rope.” Than gives up on the door and turns to observe the rest of the room. “I could buy you another one, even. What would it have been, two, three times the price of an apple?” Virgil scowls as Than scopes out the minute changes in the room, which hasn’t seen any visitors since the last time Than came over. That was even before he’d met Patton, before he had any friends aside from Than.

It’s been a while.

“So do you have any intentions of closing up that window?” Than points to the opening on the wall, which is letting in all manner of rain and leaves. Virgil lets out a groan, casting the pillow aside and diving to reposition the window pane. It’s when he hesitates to lock it that Than makes a sound of concern.

“I hate to be cliche,” Virgil murmurs, “but I think you’re gonna want to see this.”

Beyond the window, the storm approaches. Business as usual, save for what’s falling from the clouds—not rain, not snow, not hail, but creatures. Rocs and manticores and buraqs and shedus pour down in droves, all racing for the same destination, right where the school should be. At the front of it all is a pack of zburators, leading the charge.

The smile on Than’s face looks at least a little forced. “Up for an adventure?”


	10. Chapter 10

When Patton was seven, he supposes, that’s when everything sort of came crashing down to rubble around his ears. The worst part is that it wasn’t all at once—no, it was so slow, so arduous, so agonizing, he almost didn’t notice it was happening. Of course, it’s when someone isn’t looking that everything they’ve worked so hard to protect splinters under the flimsy bonds of tape and time.

It was the lesson on the Rehabilitate-Resolute War in history, on a particularly brisk day in winter. An odd detail to remember, but that’s just the way it always goes, though, isn’t it? The most trivial of specifics sticks out just as much as the world it surrounds. His teacher and the neighboring three classrooms pooled the kids of all four rooms together into a collective, complaining mass of an even hundred students. Being a kid, Patton didn’t care too much to take specific measurements on how the groups divided, but the blown up percentages certainly helped put it in perspective. At least, they helped once the teachers had made their point about what the nonsensical numbers were supposed to mean.

“—thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two.” Myjhyrr Fosthyrr ticked the numbers off on their fingers, pointing to the forty-second student. Patton would have been forty-three. “You kids come stand over here.”

As they trooped off to stand in the classroom next door, another teacher shifted one of the folding walls aside to turn four separate classrooms into one oversized area. The other fifty-eight kids looked back at Myjhyrr Fosthyrr expectantly.

“You nineteen are Group A. Stand here. You nineteen are Group B. Stand here. You twenty are Group C. Stand here.” Myjhyrr Fosthyrr pointed to each group in turn while the other three teachers corralled everyone in place. Forcing one hundred kids to be simultaneously quiet and compliant is not, by the way, an easy task. Another teacher, not Patton’s—he had Myjhyrr Fosthyrr—took over the speech part of whatever demonstration they were trying to carry out.

“For those of you who don’t have me,” she said, “I’m Myjhyrr Reyhirrn. You might have noticed that the number of you kids considerably outweighs the number of these children.” At the latter, she indicated the pack of forty-two students. “They’re Group D. Let’s pretend for the moment that Group C is Research. Group A, you all are Rehabilitate, and B, you’re Resolute. Group D is trystopian creatures.

“This is a rough and rigid estimate of the numbers we had in the Rehabilitate-Resolute War. Group C, you might recall from your lessons that as members of the Research Trytsu, you didn’t get involved until humanity was already on the brink of collapse, what with the whole ‘hands-off’ approach.” As she spoke, Myjhyrr Reyhirrn took kids from Group A and Group B by the wrist, depositing them by the door of Patton’s classroom. “These people represent lives lost during the war. Group D, three steps forward.” They complied, moving almost as a hive mind. Patton took a subconscious step back and bumped into the kid behind him, who looked arguably nervous in their own right. “When the imposing animals closed in, and the situation grew dire, members of Rehabilitate and Resolute alike knew they couldn’t survive each other on top of the animal. That’s when they turned to the up-and-coming Research Trytsu, which was getting steadily more invested in the outcome of the war.” Myjhyrr Reyhirrn beckoned Group C forward, all the while depositing more kids in the growing group of ‘lost lives’ by the door. “We lost so many people. An impossibly staggering number, which you all are far too young to fully comprehend, but look around you and tell me what you see.”

There was shuffling, murmuring, as numbers were counted and tallies were made, living people ticked off on grubby little fingers. Eventually, a consensus was reached—six remaining kids per representative Trytsu for eighteen total left ‘alive,’ forty kids designated as creatures, and forty-two ‘lost.’ It took Myjhyrr Reyhirrn’s reality check to bring back the stunned silence that’s ever so rare among seven- and eight-year-olds.

“That’s forty-two out of sixty human representatives gone. Seven out of ten. Seventy percent.” Myjhyrr Reyhirrn paused, letting the shock absorb into her their skin, letting goosebumps run rampant through the room. “Seventy percent of humanity, gone in a matter of months, all because two of the three Trytsun disagreed with each other’s morals. Seventy percent. That’s more than two Trytsun worth of people, gone.”

Most of the kids in that room forgot the weight of the demonstration by recess. Patton didn’t forget. He remembered it all the way to the end of school, through his free time for homework, through his walk home, through finding the helpless frog with a bum leg on the way. Through his mom opening the front door with a sweeping arm, seeing the presented frog Patton held with an excited bounce in his step. Through informing his mother that he was gonna be just like her, he was gonna bring peace to the world if it started fighting again, he was gonna rehabilitate the frog and save humanity, why are you crying, Mom, isn’t this a good thing, I’m gonna grow up to be just like you, what’s wrong?

Through seeing that cruel glint in his father’s eye, reflected in every mirror and window in the house, reflected in the cutlery block in the kitchen that Patton wasn’t allowed to play with. Patton never did get the chance to rehabilitate that frog. He did find the bum leg that night beneath his pillow, but it was beyond saving at that point. Maybe he even buried the leg in the backyard under the light of the moon, surrounded by glowing, mournful eyes in the bushes. Maybe he gave that frog a farewell ceremony for all the world to see, with his mother peeking out through the curtains. He would never tell, of course, lest his father decide to cut Patton’s healing habits at the root. To this day, Patton still hasn’t told.

Now, standing before the entrance to his own house, Patton remembers that frog. He had wanted to name it Philip, he remembers that much. Now, ten years later, he remembers the fear in his mother’s eyes, and he wishes her absence weren’t such a gaping chasm behind the door. Even with the sky almost normal—save for, of course, the brewing storm overhead—even with the world holding still, a sense of foreboding lingers. He didn’t question getting out of school early for once, because he was nearly certain he’d forgotten to close his closet door. With every second he hesitated, his rehabilitating creatures drew ever nearer to their unknown demise.

The appearance of his father opening up the door with a sweeping arm is jarring, to say the least. Where his mother had a soft look, mixed with the barest hint of worry, his father’s face is empty. He blinks, stepping back to let Patton in. More out of reflex than anything else, Patton rubs a hand over the fading burn marks adorning his skin. Protect what’s most visibly damaged, and the inner fears can get out unscathed. If only.

Although nothing is visibly off, per se, Patton can feel it in the air. Whatever the reason may be for his memory bringing up that day in class, it makes his stomach turn. All the way up to his room, he feels his father’s silent, lingering gaze. All the way to his bed, which stands just past the gap where the door still hasn’t been replaced. All the way to his gutted room, the walls cleared of posters and plaques, the desk emptied of meaningful trinkets, the shelves cleared of knick knacks that Patton had so carefully preserved and treasured. All the way to his closet door, where he had always promised safety to his healing creatures.

The closet door is ajar.

“What did you—what happened?” Patton murmurs, sinking to his knees. His bag might hit the floor, but he doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t hear anything, really, save for his own ragged breathing and the indomitable rushing in his ears. It’s a roaring scream in a place that could hardly be called a bedroom anymore, let alone one belonging to Patton.

The weapons used as a distraction in the closet are gone. The shelves meant to deter intruders are gone. The poster hiding the enchanted hook hangs in strips and shreds, craning like limp anthurium petals to the carpet. All around it, tangled in the tatters of the poster, is a sight to turn the strongest of stomachs. Patton does not have the strongest of stomachs.

The jorogumo’s talons lie scattered in oversized, disorganized piles. Its teeth fill in gaps like pepper between the torn bits of what used to be a face-like mask on its back. The settings on its damaged leg drape over the remains, like mockery at the pathetic rehabilitation attempt. It had been so close to being healed, and now Patton’s efforts have been reduced to pity scraps. The shedu’s mane is merely a mound of matted fur, its rainbow of feathers drifting with each of Patton’s desperate, feeble exhales. He can’t bear to make himself see any more carnage, not when he hears the telltale clearing of his father’s throat.

In one hand, a lighter. In the other, the feather of the dragon that followed Patton home from the battle between the zburator and the wolf. In his eyes, a sigh. A lecture. Hatred and resignation, poised to spill. Disappointment, held back by a thin wall of resolve. He lights the feather, letting Patton watch until the ashes rain down, rolling over his knees and burying themselves in the carpet.

“I will not allow you to make the same mistakes as your mother,” he says. “You aren’t going to throw your life away like this, not under my roof.”

Patton manages to surprise himself, standing on shaky legs and shoving past his father, who doesn’t appear concerned in the slightest as his only son heads for the door. It isn’t until Patton is on the pavement, until he hears the inarticulate chatter of far-off creatures, that the full weight of it all hits him. Patton doesn’t cry at the loss, the gaping hole in his chest, the realization that everything he’d once stood for has been ripped away. No, Patton doesn’t cry. He walks.

He walks and stumbles and wanders and gets lost in his head, aimlessly moving under the rolling storm clouds. He moves, just moves, because that’s all he really remembers how to do anymore. He moves and moves and moves, until his knees give out under him and he collapses in a heap before a familiarly ornate door.

Roman might open up the door. Patton isn’t sure. Roman might wave off his parent’s concern. Patton isn’t sure. Roman might take Patton upstairs. Patton isn’t sure. Roman might wipe away the tears. Patton isn’t sure. All Patton can really be sure of is that he sort of wishes he’d been part of that seventy percent.

Somewhere in the haze of not knowing, Patton might register Roman’s fingers drawing waves through his hair. He might notice Roman’s carefully motionless legs, a cushion for his achingly heavy head. He might hear Roman’s distant murmurs, coaxing him to let it out, let it all out. He might comply. He might not.

At some point, Patton brings himself to blink. Not hard, not long, but it’s something. He blinks, and for a moment, that’s all. It’s the one thing he can really do, is blink. So he blinks, and he blinks, and he blinks again, until he can feel the dried tear tracks on his cheeks, until he can hear Roman’s rhythmic breathing above him, until he can feel the chest rising and falling behind him, until he can see Pib heading downstairs with characteristically intent purpose. Roman shifts, managing to time his reconnection with consciousness at the same moment as Patton.

———–

I have to tell you something,” Roman says. Patton can feel the rumble of Roman’s voice vibrating his head. “It’s about Than.”

“What?” Patton asks the ceiling. It’s a whisper of a question, barely enough to breach the surface of sound, but it’s enough.

“He saw the rivers flowing backwards. He’s seen magic going haywire. Something is coming.” Roman clenches a fist around the blankets. “It’s coming soon.”

Patton sits up a little, still staring at something beyond the roof. Roman gnaws on his lip, wishing Patton would respond, berate him for daring to talk to Than, something.

“And you believed him?”

“I guess so?” Roman flexes his fingers, drumming a rhythm on Patton’s back. “He seemed pretty sincere, and he went really out of his way to talk to me about it.”

“I take it we’re expected to do something then? Perfect, because it’s not like existing is hard enough in the first place.” Patton sulks, folding his arms and pouting. “What are we even supposed to do about it?”

With a heavy sigh, far more weary than necessary, Roman glances at Pib’s still-open door. “Probably ask Logan about it, since that’s what Than suggested. Maybe he said something to Pib about it, I don’t know.”

“Okay, so let’s see if we can’t do anything with what Pib knows, then.” Patton shakes his head, as if he were removing the last couple hours from his memory, and moves for Pib’s room.

Where it should normally be perfectly clean, organized, and lacking in chaos, Pib’s room is utterly destroyed. Dirty and clean clothes alike litter the floor, carelessly covered with stray packets of paper. They all have different statistics, graphs, articles, and indecipherable codes scribbled on them, the stacks rising in frequency as they get closer to a corkboard on the wall.

On the board, green strings loop around countless pins, drawing lines between more graphs, more charts, more nonsense that Roman couldn’t hope to comprehend. He grabs Patton’s shoulder to hold him back from stepping on a loose dish of pins, focusing the rest of his attention on the pictures scattered on the board. Pencil sketches of Trilyo, of Than, and a professional inking of Myjhyrr Senthyirr’s face, even a smack of purple paint that almost looks like Virgil. Roman’s forehead creases as he pokes out his tongue, trying to make sense of any of it.

“Hey, there’s a storm pattern drawn on this one,” Patton points out, tracing his pinky under a map of areas to the west. “When did Pib start this?”

“Beats me,” Roman murmurs. “As far as I’m concerned, their room was totally empty this morning.”

“Okay, so how did they get it so destroyed so fast?” Patton waves a piece of paper, trying to keep it from folding over as he pores over the drawing on it. A zburator snarls out from the page in dark grey scratches, framed by flames of green and red. “And what’s with all the zburator focus?”

“They changed their project focus, I think.” Roman rests his chin on Patton’s shoulder, squinting at the unnervingly realistic eyes of the zburator. “I remember them telling Logan about it.”

“There’s that whole ‘confiding in Logan’ thing again,” Patton says. “Since when is he so tangled up in all this stuff?”

“Since he proved to pretty much the entire school that he knows what he’s about, after threatening Myjhyrr Reythnyrryk and everything.” Roman looks back up at the board, his eyes locking on the portrait of Trilyo, on the string spilling from their hair. “Why is their—”

Somewhere outside, a voice yells something indistinct. Roman jerks up, jostling Patton in the process. “That sounded like Pib.” They share a moment’s glance before bolting for the front door.

———–

“What could be taking them so long?” Logan mutters, his foot tapping an impatient rhythm on the dead grass of the front lawn. “They should have a sense of urgency.”

“Unless they’re ignoring the obvious symbolic significance of the storm,” Pib replies. “You can’t exactly expect people run by emotions to act on logic. Suppose they decided to give reason to everything they did? They would have all sort of purpose and intent, and then where would we be, hm?” As Logan prepares to reprimand Pib—for what, he doesn’t quite know—the front door bursts open.

“Where’s the trouble?” Roman demands. Patton hangs over his shoulder, his eyes puffy and his nose cherry red.

“Roman, dearest, darlingest brother of mine, have you perchance observed the sky in these waxing hours of early evening as of late?” Pib smirks as they dodge Roman’s irritated attempt at a smack.

“In all seriousness,” Logan cuts in, shooting Pib a look of mock annoyance, “do look up once in a while. It might suit you.”

Roman huffs a sigh, lifting his chin along with Patton. Indeed, the world above is a sight to behold. Dark clouds spiral in, all hues of angry purple and blue and grey, such an insistent grey to drown out the sun. They pulse like a punctured heart, swirling in to hover gaunt around one stabbed hole, piercing the darkness. All around them, animals whip out from bushes and trees and even the dirt itself, running for the epicenter of the chaos. Pib lifts a foot as a freybug scurries past, its tail whacking their leg in the process.

“Any word from Virgil?” The worry in Patton’s voice is a good deal more obvious than he’d probably like it to be.

Logan eyes him dubiously as Roman and Pib exchange a glance, something silent and decisive passing between them. “You mean to tell me that you’ve known Virgil for upwards of five years, and you aren’t already convinced that he’s at the site of the disaster? That he’s probably the reason that pinhole of light hasn’t sealed off yet?”

“Good point. Okay, so let’s go, then. I guess.” Before he’s even finished giving the weak command, Roman and Pib are running for the light. Logan yanks Patton by the wrist, tugging him along to chase the beam shooting out of their school.

———–

“This is your fault, you know,” Virgil informs Than. Their feet punch through increasingly large puddles as they sprint for the school.

“A bold statement, if you can back it up.” Than shakes his head, spraying rain from the tips of his hair into Virgil’s eyes. While he isn’t certain how far back, exactly, the rain started, it’s undoubtedly an annoyance and an inconvenience by now.

“If you hadn’t followed me home, we wouldn’t be rushing off to throw ourselves into what could very well be the dangerous unknown. Isn’t that the fun part? We don’t know whether it’s dangerous, because it’s unknown, which is also your fault.” Virgil grimaces as the soaked cuff of his pant leg scrapes over his ankle. “Not to mention, I wouldn’t have had to see you in the first place if you hadn’t ambushed me on my way home.”

“Yeah, you would’ve just suffered a painful demise, alone in your room.” Than’s eyes are filled with some sort of emotion, that much is obvious, but Virgil doesn’t want to deal with the tangled history involved in solving it. “Start paying attention. The sun turned grey last week. The grass was blowing the breeze, not the other way around. I saw a rabbit prowling around like it was a zburator.” Than pauses, clearly agitated at Virgil’s complete lack of concern. “The rivers have been flowing backwards, Virgil. This stuff can’t be avoided by hiding in your room when you don’t feel like dealing with it.”

“Every river runs backwards, that’s just how magic works. Backwards is forwards when it comes to magic, anyway. What’s your point?”

Than stops, letting Virgil get a good ten paces further before noticing. “What did you just say?”

“Rivers run uphill. Basic magic oddity, based on literally every river I’ve ever seen. Rivers run uphill because of the zburators running alongside them, changing the pull of gravity.” Virgil paws at a clump of drenched hair falling in his eye. “I’ve been near enough rivers to know about their relationships with magic and with zburators. That’s just what magic does, so again I will ask this: What is your point?”

Than stares at Virgil for a long moment, letting the silence stretch on for ages, letting the unrelenting rain answer his question. “Never mind. Uphill rivers and course-changing zburators. You’re right. My mistake.” He rejoins Virgil in the run, wearing an obviously intentional poker face. At least, an obvious attempt at a poker face. Whether it succeeds is not something Virgil wants to contemplate.

Granted, it’s not very long of a running reunion, as the school looms not fifteen yards ahead. From the wide part of the pavement before the efront doors streaks a beam of light, almost a beacon of some sort, a homing signal for more creatures than Virgil had seen in his entire life, put together in a ten foot radius. And at the center of it all, his arms slack at his sides, his face tilted to the heavens, stands Myjhyrr Senthyirr.

From the right, Roman sprints toward the teacher with Pib, Logan, and Patton in tow. Much closer—closer than Virgil is comfortable with, frankly—is Trilyo on the left, their hands reaching for the teacher. Myjhyrr Senthyirr presumably does not see the sharp glint of a blade hooked around their waist.

Than does.

“Wait, what are you—” Virgil’s demand is lost to the growing howls of the wind as Than sprints forward, throwing himself between teacher and student.

Trilyo glares, their hand halfway toward a leather handle. “Get out of the way, Than. Trying to keep the world from ending, here, or maybe you didn’t notice.”

Virgil shoots a glance at the furiously brewing clouds, his peripherals revealing the other four rooted in spot. A growling zburator spits fire, evaporating the rain around it as it paces circles to force them still. I really hate that idiot, Virgil thinks, watching Roman offer a feeble kick in resistance.

He isn’t quite sure when or how it happened, but Virgil finds himself staring up close at Myjhyrr Senthyirr. His eyes glow neon green, his mouth hanging slightly agape and appearing to literally drink the sun’s light from the sky as the world darkens. Amphipteres and jynthykryks alike draw closer, foaming and spitting and snarling as they claw for Virgil’s heels, for Trilyo’s hair, for that shining green stroke bolting from their head. More worrying than the advancing animals is Myjhyrr Senthyirr’s skin, which seems to have a bursting jade core shining just beneath the surface.

“You have to let me do this,” Trilyo hisses, not even a hint of remorse in their eyes as Than drops to the dirt with a groan and curls around his stomach. “Get out of here, Virgil.” Overhead hovers a rainbow dragon, its feathers shedding faster than they can replenish. It seems to ignore the unintentional molt, directing its attention at Patton, who cowers behind Roman. Most of its feathers rain down on him, a gentle sprinkling that seems to remove some of the fear from Patton’s eyes. One feather, just one, a single spark of rainbow, drifts down to stick in Trilyo’s hair, at which they barely flinch. Virgil doesn’t particularly care for how at home the accidental accessory looks.

“And what exactly is the ‘this’ I have to let you do? What, precisely, am I supposed to be letting you get away with?” Virgil is yelling now, desperate to keep the wind from swallowing his words.

“He’s why magic is going haywire.” Trilyo’s voice hardly strays from a whisper, somehow still managing to carry itself over the wind. “If we get rid of Senthyirr, we get rid of whatever apocalyptic type magic is going on here.”

A roc screams overhead, diving for Myjhyrr Senthyirr. Virgil ducks, but Trilyo doesn’t so much as flinch. Their hair blows up as the air rushes back to fill the space the roc vacated. “Myjhyrr Senthyirr didn’t do anything! That doesn’t even make any sense!”

“Then let me do it, so it can all be over with! Just go back home, and hide in your little bubble of self pity and hatred, and take your interfering friends with you. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’ve kind of been useless spectators, and I don’t suppose you’re too eager to lose them because they couldn’t save themselves, let alone save you.” Than moans on the ground, prompting an irritated kick to the core from Trilyo.

“We rescued you from that jynthykryk!” Roman calls, ignoring the bewildered looks from his companions. “What happened to solving this with reason? Weren’t you supposed to be a front runner for the Research Trytsu? You’re just a kid, you shouldn’t be doing any of this anyway!” His voice cracks as the zburator circling them snarls at his feet. “This is kind of the polar opposite of ‘do not interfere,’ you know!”

“There won’t be a world left for me to research if this keeps up!” Trilyo lunges for Myjhyrr Senthyirr’s motionless throat as Virgil goes for their waist. He rolls as they collide with the ground, dodging the sharp elbow aimed at his face. “Have you ever stopped to ask yourself why he’s at the center of everything? Maybe why he’s matching the grass and stealing the light from the sky? I don’t know about you, but those things seem just a little important to me!”

“I’m not about to let you put this kind of thing on your conscience!” Virgil shouts. At least, he tries to shout it, but projecting his voice proves to be a little difficult when Trilyo is sitting atop his lungs and brandishing a blade.

“I’ll put this on my conscience a thousand times over, if that’s what it takes!” Trilyo’s hand lowers, a prickling sensation rising at Virgil’s throat. He tries to flinch back, less surprised by the unyielding ground than by the sudden lack of weight on his chest. A flash of a snarling zburator, a sharp cry from Trilyo, and silence.

Virgil blinks, barely present enough to watch it unfold as Trilyo freezes, looking on as the zburator hisses fire, raindrops flicking off the flames like fireworks. A strangled yell from Myjhyrr Senthyirr erupts an identical cry from Virgil, and the single pillar of light turns green. The hue swallows Myjhyrr Senthyirr, dripping from his fingers to light the ground ablaze. The color spreads across the earth like water trickling between pebbles, the cracks getting wider and wider until they reach Trilyo. The green streak in their hair shines brighter, melding with the dirt beneath them as the zburator leans in. Its flames, normally red and orange, sparkle shamrock and crackle mint.

For a split second, the world goes emerald, long enough for Virgil to realize he shut his eyes to avoid seeing anything more than he could handle. When he forces himself to look again, everything is gone, leaving behind only puffs of lime-tinted smoke. Trilyo is gone. The trystopian creatures are gone. The clouds are gone. Even Myjhyrr Senthyirr is gone, a green smoke cloud silhouetting where he’d knelt mere moments before.

Logan paces, rambling to a sympathetically nodding Patton, albeit a visibly confused one. “He had to have known, that’s how Trilyo was in the advisor wing when I needed them to be, but that doesn’t explain everything that came before. What about the cave? What about Than, how does he fit in there? That shouldn’t have made Myjhyrr Senthyirr disappear, all he did was yell something, it’s not necessarily a case of whether he—”

Virgil looks over to Roman, who stares at the ground—back to its normal brown tones, all hints of a downpour gone. Beside him is Pib, with whom he mumbles something to prompt furrowed eyebrows, an expression born of the demented fusion of a grimace and despair.

And at Virgil’s side, still curled in on himself and moaning, Than. Than, who apparently knew so much more than he was willing to share. Than, who always stuck around, regardless of who he hurt in the process. Than, who saw something odd in Virgil’s backwards rivers and relentless zburators, but stayed at his side anyway.

And at the center of it all, Virgil. Plain old Virgil, who’s pretty sure he’s had just about enough of all this high school nonsense by now. Plain old Virgil, who would rather feign annoyance at the friends he loves so much than face the implications of what just happened, of what he just caused, intentionally or not. Plain old Virgil, who can only say one thing for near certain at this point—he knows what the aim of his TryMyts will be.

At least, he thinks he does.


End file.
